Parenting
We let you cry it out. We didn’t buy the wipe warmer. We laughed when you were angry, sometimes, but at least we tried to hide it. We forgot to put sunscreen on you. We told our friends stories about times you embarrassed yourself. We even took a photograph in front of a water slide and told you we’d taken you to Disney World.
We couldn’t sleep the first night you were home, too anxious to know if you were okay. We held you close to our chests and watched you sleep. We put baby gates around the fireplace, the staircase, the kitchen, the universe. We held you as you barked coughs in the steaming shower, in the middle of the night—begging whatever was out there to let you catch your breath.
It broke our hearts when other children were mean to you. We spent too much money buying you plastic toys and then threw them away when you weren’t looking. We threw away your artwork, too. We ran off copies of your birthday party invitations on the office printer when no one was looking. We played you Michael Jackson instead of Mozart.
Through our dreams for you we saw our own magnificent shortcomings. We wondered whether to tell you about all the drugs we’d taken, all the regretted sex. We pretended to know the answers and kept our fingers crossed, sometimes behind our backs. We ignored it when we knew you were up to something. We debated politics. We got pissed when you didn’t fill up the gas tank.
We wanted more than anything to protect you. The world forced us to admit we couldn’t. Life impeded, made you suffer. We cursed and railed and somehow worked our way back to hope. We looked at old photos. We felt bad for fucking you up, but the great catch was that admitting it would only fuck you up more. And deep down, a part of us still saw you as perfect. So we kept doing our best and adoring you. If nothing else, at least you had a good sense of humor. Maybe we could take some credit for that.