19 Jul 2011 4 Comments
Do you ever just wonder what the hell you’re doing, parenting children? I do, all the time. I mean, who are these little creatures who rely on me so utterly? How on earth do they think that I possibly know what the hell I’m doing? Because, really? I have no clue.
And I worry, all the time, that I’m fucking them up. I often think of this poem:
This Be The Verse, by Philip Larkin
They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself.
And they look up at me, with those trusting little faces, when I say “Put this ice pack on and it will feel better in the morning” or “Try it this way, darling, and it will work,”
or “Let’s cut your hair and then it won’t be such a tangled mess,” and they believe me. They trust me And that’s sort of incredible. Not sort of. It is. Incredible.
Who the hell thought I could handle this?
Am I the only parent who thinks this way? Because sometimes, this parenthood thing? Freaks me right the fuck out.
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