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Everyone is Just as F***ked Up as Me

You know what’s hard? Having a kid. Not the birthing part, which, yeah, it was hard. But the home-from-the-hospital-now-you-have-a-kid kind of having a kid. The kind of having a kid where you’re responsible for another persons physical and emotional well-being. The kind of having a kid where it feels like every decision you make is going to have long term ramifications. The kind of having a kid where you wonder endlessly if your fucked-upedness is having an impact on his delicate baby psyche. Having a kid is hard. And really scary.

It’s the hardest, scariest thing I have ever done. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I am CONSTANTLY worried that I’m fucking him up. If B and I get in a fight, is that gonna mess him up? If I get impatient while he’s NOT GOING TO SLEEP is that gonna mess him up? Is the fact that he HATES GOING TO SLEEP my fault? Have I done something to give him some heinous, negative sleep association? Every little thing, every single aspect of how I lived my life before has been rethought and over-examined and dissected until I have no idea who I am or what kind of person I am or was or will be. 

Someone on Twitter today told me that I don’t have to be a perfect mom to be the perfect mom for him. It’s a wonderful sentiment, it really is. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and like I can actually pull this off and end up with a kid who isn’t a sociopath. And I know I don’t have to be perfect, that nobody is perfect, and that expecting perfection is just dumb…but how much imperfection is ok? That’s really the question, isn’t it?

How much can I take advantage of the learning curve before it screws him up? I put him down in front of the TV today…and yesterday…and day before. He’s 5 months old and I’m already using the television as a babysitter. I swore he would have ZERO TV until he was two years old. Less than a quarter of the way to that goal, I gave up. Now, I take full advantage of the ol boob tube. Am I proud? Nope. Is it ok that I do it? All science points to no, it is not ok. But you know what? I would lose my damn mind if I didn’t. It distracts him long enough for me to collect my wits and regroup. Then we start over with whatever I was failing at before I began to lose my shit. Usually naptime. I hate naptime.

So, yeah, you don’t have to be perfect. You shouldn’t try. But where do you draw the line and what do you do when you feel like you’ve crossed it? That’s where I am. I’ve thrown up my hands trying to figure it out honestly. I’m just going from one day to the next, trying not to fuck him up too much. He’s gonna be fucked up. Everyone’s parents fucked them up somehow. I get that now. I just have to try not to fuck him up TOO badly. That’s the goal.


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