Everything worries me
Him: How’s it being a dad?
The boy is rambunctious.
He’s kinda like a cat that randomly runs into another room for no reason, only to hurriedly run back. Like the cat, he knows exactly why he runs, but the observer does not.
As I told a buddy, life with him is disquieting.
Not because of things like that, though. That’s comforting, somehow; that he’s a happy child, doing happy child things.
Rather, it’s because of something that Alison related to me once that her mother told her: The day you have a child is the day you start to worry and never stop.
I agree with that. And my case is especially anxiety producing, for two reasons:
1) I do this mainly alone.
2) Everything worries me.
On the former, I don’t have Alison’s keen insight into child rearing that she seemed to have naturally. She had an answer for everything.
Wish she was around for a million reasons, one of which is that I don’t have anyone to discuss rando child-rearing things with.
On the latter, that’s a different matter.
The other day, we stopped by a Super Bowl party with the same neighbors I spent NYE with. While there he fell and hit his head while playing around with RE Mike.
For anyone else, this is probably something that’s quickly forgotten. But because of what happened to Alison, any time he hits his head, feel a panic that I can’t describe.
Didn’t sleep well for a few nights afterward.
After all, what is anxiety if not the fear of the hypothetical?
Parenthood, ideally, is filled with love. But for every drop of love, there’s a commensurate drop of fear, I think.
All the more for me because of what happened to our family and because he’s all I have left that matters from her.
Then again, I suppose fear’s the bargain one makes for love. For some it’s too high a price to pay, and I get that. Now more than ever.
But I still think it’s worth it. I’d do everything all over again in a heartbeat.
Man, if you could see my kid laugh and not love him, you’re a tougher person than I.
And I’m made of titanium.
My mom: He said “I want daddy” while you were away.
Me: Get outta here. Wait, “daddy” or “papa?”
Me: I wonder where he learned that from?
Her: Does that really matter?
Me: No. I guess not. (leaning in) Did you miss me?
Me: (laughing) Well, that didn’t last long.
Location: A black desk
Music: I’m broken and I don’t understand