A few months ago a friend of mine who is considering adopting a child -- not a baby, a child who was the ward of the province, which almost certainly means the child was abused or at the very least neglected, and then removed from his or her home, resulting in almost certain emotional trauma -- asked me if I was worried about screwing up my child. If I was worried that I would irreparably harm him through some parenting mishap.
I said no. And then I added that it was not because I was so sure of my expertise as a parent. It was because my parents, as good as they were and are, screwed me up. And the things they screwed up they totally don't even remember. It was some thoughtless comment, completely forgotten by them, that I remembered well into my adulthood.
I said I was in fact sure I was going to screw up my child, but I wasn't worried about it because there was nothing I could do to stop it. It would be something I wouldn't even remember that would harm him and put him into therapy as an adult. You know, because if I did something wrong and I remembered it and felt bad about it, I would likely apologize or make amends somehow, and then it wouldn't be something he would feel horrible about.
This morning I was putting in laundry -- just a few clothes and all -- and I happened to have in my hand a blanket. A blanket that came into our world tucked into the body one precious crocodile stuffed toy. A crocodile that was lovingly named by his small boy owner, who then in turn named the blanket as well, once his dear father rolled it into a snake and then made up songs about the crocodile, the snake, and the boy and their adventures. Songs that were repeated ad infinitum at the express enraptured request of the small boy.
At first, I think he thought I was kidding about the blanket, throwing it into the laundry. It was only once I slammed the door of the front loading washer that his face crumpled into a horrified teary mess and I realized what the hell I had done.
Luckily I hadn't actually turned on the washer, so I hastily opened it and pulled out the green fuzzy thing, and handed to the child who clutched it to his traumatized self, tears streaming down his face, looking at me with horror and disbelief. I said I was sorry, I told him it was ok. I felt like a monster.
We sent him off to daycare and will wash the blanket surreptitiously at some point in the future. And hopefully one day my child won't be lying on a therapist couch weeping about the blanket, the washing machine and the cruel, cruel mommy.
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