Dear Fellow Parent

Something is brewing inside of me.  Something that is not very nice.  Something I’ve been fighting for a long time and I’m reaching my limit.

You see, my kid can’t do all those things other three year olds can do.  My kid can’t say silly things that make no sense.  He can’t make animal noises and pretend he’s a bunny... hop hop hop!  He can’t sing The Wheels on the Bus or Row Row Row Your Boat.  We never colour together or paint or draw with chalk on the sidewalk.  Play-Doh is for throwing, eating or shoving it into every little nook and cranny, not for building Olaf.  We don’t do story time or nursery rhymes.  We just survive.

Every day is a battle just to get everybody through in one piece.  If I can get him to eat one meal that includes iron and go to bed before 11 PM, we’ve won.  We rarely win though.  In fact, I can’t remember the last time we’ve won.  I am tired.  So very tired.  Drained.  It’s like all the emotional energy I was granted has been drained away and I am an empty sac.  All that is left is some very nasty feelings.

You see, the problem is sort-of you.  You, as in the proud parent of a toddler that can do any or all of those things.  You write blogs about the things your kid says.  You post on Facebook the  cute songs the munchkin sings.  Artwork is displayed that he can do all by himself.  You can go to the park and when she wants to take something that doesn’t belong to her, you can reprimand and with some work usually get an “I’m sorry” out of her.  You can teach him to ask nicely and even though he doesn’t always do it, you know he is capable.  He can go to the naughty corner and get his timeout and it will mean something.  You can talk about it.  Explain why.

Your kid can probably say their own name.  She can answer when someone asks it of her.  She might not always do it because there is definitely some personality there!  But she is capable.  She knows what is being asked and she can deliver.  You can explain to your kid why running into the street is dangerous.  You can explain about cars and strangers and dogs that are out for a walk.  Yes, he doesn’t always listen, but he can understand.

And this is where my problem lies.  Every time I see or hear or read about the amazing and yet very ordinary accomplishments and milestones you have reached, my heart breaks.  Someone is taking a dagger that I have already been stabbed with and twisting it.  A little by little.  Every day it gets twisted just enough to remind me of what we can’t do.  What, after three years of parenting I still haven’t experienced.

I didn’t expect this.  And yes, there are so many mothers who have it way worse.  I get it.  But this is still so very hard.  Sometimes it overshadows the wonders my child has to offer.  I feel guilty.  So very guilty it eats my soul.  I feel guilty for not trying harder.  Guilty for not singing more, reading more or reciting more rhymes.  Guilty for not going that extra mile that might just have been the one to crack the code.  What if that one extra mile was the one to make magic happen?  But what if there is no magic?  What if the magic was never meant to be for us?

I am so sorry I feel this way.  I am so sorry that I look at you, my friends, and instead of just enjoying our time together and being happy for you, I envy you.  I envy you the opportunity to bribe your kid to eat his lunch.  I envy you when you potty train and even though it took awhile and you hated it, you were successful.  I don’t even know where to start.  I don’t know what to do.  The internet isn’t helping.  The more I google, the more hopeless it seems.  Time to step away from Mr. G.  He never really helps.  He just helps you find the answers you didn’t want.  

And please, don’t think I have anything against you.  I know it sounds that way.  But I don’t.  You are doing a great job.  I am just a little jealous.  And when I get all tired and worn out like I am today, the feelings that are left in my heart of hearts, is negative.  They are dark and gloomy and there is no place for hope.  There is no place for light.  There is only fear.  Fear that this will never end.  This will never get better.  And that maybe, just maybe I will miss my second chance.  I am scared that I am so consumed by this that I will miss my chances with the baby.  I don’t interact with him through song and story as much as I should because I feel broken.  And I am scared.  Scared that I am fucking up.  Scared that he will forever be at a disadvantage because of my weakness.  I couldn’t find the energy.  I couldn’t find the drive.  All I could find was guilt and shame.  

But tomorrow is another day, right?  Tomorrow we try again.  And maybe tomorrow I can be a better friend and mother instead of wallowing in self-pity and despair.  Despair isn’t very attractive, is it?  And tomorrow I will see you, fellow parent, again.  You will be at the park, the mall, on Facebook and I will enjoy your child.  I will enjoy seeing and hearing and reading about the amazing things toddlers can get up to.  Until that time, I’m just going to try my best to not get too lost in the darkness.  

I will see you and love you again in the morning, dear friend.  But for the time being, please accept my apologies.  It isn’t fair towards you, I am sorry.  So very sorry.