When I was a kid, I had this recurring dream. It wasn’t so much disturbing in the sense that it was a nightmare, but kind of disturbing in the sense that a labyrinth would be disturbing. Unless of course you find labyrinths fascinating, in which case, carry on, then.
The dream started with me, as a kid, sitting in my old driveway on Long Island, in the drivers seat. I can’t see over the steering wheel, but I slowly back out of the driveway and into the busy street, where I proceed to drive down the road. I look up and see that it’s winter, as the trees are bare. I find it odd that I’m 7-8 years old and I can drive, and that I don’t crash, even thought I can’t see the road.
I can’t ever turn around and get back home. And it disturbed me, because all I wanted to do was go back home. Whatever the meaning of this dream is, I can’t say. I was young, so my guess is that it was a fear of something.
This week, I cannot seem to get back home.
Since the Mini’s 15 month appointment, the one where I tried not to worry so much about looming words like developmental delay and Autism, I can honestly say I failed spectacularly in that not worrying part. It’s my job to worry about him. I’ve spent the better part of the last couple of weeks watching his behaviors like a hawk. And also feeling like I’m a complete failure at parenthood, because I know that I’m not doing enough for him. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m not entirely sure how. We sing songs, we dance, we go to Gymboree or other classes at least 3 times a week. We hit up the pool, or the park at least once a week. And I’m sure that many parents are flipping me off because they don’t do nearly that much with their kid. Yet, I base my level of suckitude on whether or not my kid can point to something or scribble on a piece of paper.
My quality of life these days has gone completely down the toilet, I can tell you that.
My brain operates like that of a spastic retarded monkey. It’s not organized. I’m a space cadet. I get sidetracked very easily. I forget things. It’s a wonder that they actually allowed me to go home with a baby, and it’s a wonder that I haven’t a) lost him, and b)done something stupid that has put him in danger. I’m amazed that I remember to put the scissors away in a locked drawer so that he doesn’t get at them.
I know that no parent is perfect. And I know we all have our worries, doubts and fears. I’m sure most parents feel successful if they’ve all made it to the end of the day unscathed. But I beat myself up to the point where it’s crippling. Maybe this is a good thing to an extent, because it shows exactly how much I just want what’s best for him. I want him to know how much he’s loved and how much pressure I put on myself to make sure that he knows that. I don’t to be a perfect parent. By any stretch. I don’t want the perfect kid who can count to 100 by the age of one. I just want him to realize in 30 years, that we just did the best we could.
On top of all of this mess, I have to have surgery next month. I’m not going to go into details on why or for what. It’s personal, I don’t feel like talking about it. It’s nothing serious, I’ll be find, yadda yadda. I just didn’t need this right now.