Monday, September 26, 2016

It's like I've had a second go for me

I didn't know how I'd go at being a dad. It turns out I love the experience and I am good at it. Mind you thewife does 90 per cent of the actual work—because of my disabilities and her preference for domestic excellence—but in terms of emotional and actual availability I am there with boots on.

When I had my seventh psych assessment the assessor asked about my childhood; how it was. I said it was "neutral". He I asked what I meant. I said that I had full care and support and mechanisms to excel but that I endured disability, scorn and mockery which included from my parents.

Needless to say I still have a fucking chip on my shoulder.

So with theboy none of that bullshit is happening to him that happened to me. It's like I've had a second go for me, to raise him how I should have been raised—with deep love and affection and zero judgement for physical failings or, indeed, for any failings. And where effort, even that which ends in failure, is praised then praised again.

Of course he's an only child so gets double-barrelled deep focused love—there's no others to be measured against or favoured like what happens in almost every family with more than one child (and which happened in mine). 

The best revenge is doing well and I am doing well with theboy. I love him and he loves me. 

The other day I watched Lincoln, the story of Abraham Lincoln's attempt to get the thirteenth amendment to ban slavery passed at the tail end of the civil war, The most poignant moment is when he takes his twelve-year-old Thaddeus to bed. Lincoln lies on the floor, interacting with Thaddeus at level, then on all fours playfully throws his kid on his long back and four walks about for a bit. 

The other day I was on all fours and theboy was atop my back, his head nestled in the hollow of the back of my head. I stalked about for a bit then stopped and just enjoyed the experience.

Revenge is fucking awesome. Take that, everyone else—I win.

UPDATE: It's not all roses for him, though. Sometimes I am not available for him emotionally because my fight (slash) flight has triggered and I cannot cope. I recently broke his set-up rail track by mistake. He got angry then slammed stuff around and I couldn't handle it—anxiety had fired. In a shaky voice I just told him I couldn't deal with him being upset. 

He sent me to the shed. 

I stood in there, crying, because my less-than-10-year-old had given me a time out in my room. After he was done fixing it he came and got me and I told him how proud I was of him, and just how much better he was at controlling how he felt than I ever was at his age and that I hated being injured because I couldn't help him sometimes. He listened patiently as I cried and talked and then he gently led me back inside.

As a child I saw my dad go down the one time to acute, wrenching despair. So bad I had to call my mother to come get him.

My son sees it on a weekly basis; sometimes daily.

My injury's footprint is monstrous and a child shouldn't have to parent a parent; not when they're still a fucking child.   
At least he gives a shit; but then he wouldn't be my child if he didn't. 


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