The Only Opinion That Matters

I was forced to wear a limiting mitten on my left hand for a year when I was six, so I would be forced to be right handed. So I knew at that age that something was wrong with me. I was the least favorite child in my home, which validated this thought. I cheered for the Indians, not the cowboys. My parents said things like “Where did we go wrong?” and “What is wrong with that kid?” I drew cartoons all the time, and got into trouble in every single class. I did not want to have anything to do with math, so refused to learn it. My conferences were not the best. I had a bad attitude. Weird since I was never disrespectful. I did smirk at the teachers when I caught them at a mistake. Did not correct them, just smirked. It drove them crazy. I did not learn that I was okay until I became a mother and did not whip my children into submission. I did not call them names. I did not hit them at all. I realized then I was okay. Little ones calling me Mommy increased my confidence. I began dressing, living and doing what I wanted to do. Not pleasing anyone in my family of origin. And I did not issue any apologies. I began to write, paint, and cartoon. I finally figured out the only opinion that mattered about me was mine.