(Impatience)
So Dash is getting better… but not fast enough for me. Once
the “breakthrough” is made, isn’t it time for the montage sequence accompanied
by the three-minute inspirational song and then everything returns to “normal” (or even
better than normal since a difficult journey was made)?
(Irritation)
Despite his now being in school for six hours, I still
resent the house arrest his fear puts me under from 3 pm until Dennis returns
from work. I try to remember the self that used to plead with Dash—long after all
other kids were gone from the playground and the rats of Tompkins encroached,
dusk signaling their time to play—“Honey, can’t we please go home?” There were
times that that kid drove me mad (as I watched compliant children leave with
their parents at dinnertime, but now I miss him. The boundless energy and
rambunctiousness is there, but he’s imprisoned and mercilessly hurls the
cushions from our couch against walls and the floor as he twirls and
somersaults to “Billie Jean” or “Thriller.”
And my outlet is
the irritation that makes him repeatedly ask, “Are you mad at me?” And I say
no enough times that guilt seeps into the irritation, which makes me sad, and
of course, I’m lying because I am angry… I’m mad and frustrated. And I’m
terribly sad.
(Image)
He’s suffering. That kills me, but there’s an embarrassingly
narcissistic side to my sadness. Prior
to this mess we’re in, Dash was the mayor of the street, the boy who commented
on a friend’s mom’s new haircut, or high-fived the regular motorcycle dudes who
frequented the corner restaurant. Dennis
and I basked in the warmth that he exuded and that came back at him. We long for that kid, but we also miss being
the parents of that kid. And that is not an enviable trait…. While most of us
say, “We just want our child to be happy!” I confess I am far from free of
projecting aspirations onto him of the qualities I wish I had had as a child or even as an adult.
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