A Question of Hope

I don’t look at my child, a six year old with shiny hair and better social skills than I have, and feel hope.  This is me speaking truthfully:  I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Usually she is friendly and out-going.  She has a way of expressing herself that makes the other parents raise their eyebrows.  (Her fashion sense is exquisitely eclectic.)  I try very hard to keep her from being my whole world.  I know this can’t honeymoon can’t last forever.  She’ll grow up and I’ll become an idiot – just ask her.  She’ll want to spend the night at someone’s house and I’ll say no, so she’ll sit in her room and pout for the rest of the night.  Who knows, something worse could happen?  She could become bulimic – she’s already semi-obsessed with food and diet.   She could be bipolar too, and work out her feelings with all kinds of drugs.  She could live with the type of crushing loneliness that I did for years.  I wish I had more hope, maybe I’m just depressed today, but I worry, like I know I should not.



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