Monday, April 15

Why I'm allowed to brag; Why you are not, Part II

In an effort to make myself seem like less of an angry psycho, I am writing this to let the world know, "I am not an angry psycho!!!" I love my friend's kids. I love hearing about funny shit that they do, like punching mom in the face, or shitting their pants on Santa's lap at the mall, or wearing a piece of bread as a bracelet, or dancing to music with words like "shit", "balls", and "suck". I realized after this post, that I was turning into an insensitive stupidhead, one who might just be making other people feel bad about themselves. But wait... how does that help anyone, you ask? It doesn't! And that's why I am going to attempt to actually write something sensitive and helpful to hopefully undo any bad feelings I may have stirred up.

Last August, Branko's pediatrician asked me how I was doing. It was weird, and it seemed like a loaded question. I was immediately suspicious. Why is she asking me that? Is she about to give me bad news? I told her I was fine, and then I said, no, actually, things are pretty shitty. I told her about how hard it was that Branko seemed so different from other babies. It was the first time I had said anything like that out loud.  Up to that point, Branko had appeared to be meeting all his developmental milestones; then, at 13 months, other babies started having these explosive developmental spurts. Kids his age were walking. They started saying 'momma'. They started to feed themselves. What had been a totally awesome, blissful one-year-long maternity leave was starting to feel like a distant memory. Every 'new' thing that another baby did felt like a kick in the stomach. This kick in the stomach felt worse with babies younger than Branko. I stopped enjoying every single moment with my son, and starting worrying, to the point where it was difficult to leave the house. Why put myself through that pain? In retrospect, I realize it was totally, absolutely, like that time in grade 8 when I decided to 'drop out' of school because some kid named Danny told everyone I did not need a bra. Yeah, NEVER going to school again seemed like the only possible solution, just like never leaving the house with your one-year-old son. I realize now, nearly 8 months later, that I don't want to be the kind of person who makes irrational decisions on par with that of an angry, flat-chested grade 8 girl.

Back to my doctor's office. She printed and gave me the following article. At the time, it didn't make me feel better, because I thought I had nothing in common with the author.  And now, a few months later, I realize how lucky I am that someone put these complicated, intense, and sometimes angry feelings into words. PLEASE NOTE:  I am in no way comparing myself to Maria Lin. Her situation is extraordinarily different from mine.  I would also like to point out that she is a fucking hero: a real, honest-to-goodness writer who has the talent to more eloquently describe many of the challenges I have come across.

So that's all I'm going to say on the topic of "feeling sorry for myself cause my son can't do some of the shit that he's supposed to do yet". {Please read Ms. Lin's article.}  

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