I actually wrote this post over a year ago, we survived–the hole is still there–taken permanent residence for constantly different reasons. I am trying to accept it, to feed it when necessary so that it doesn’t overwhelm me….so yes, at times, I bathe it in a nice chilled vodka tonic.

And so it begins. My oldest child “N” has just finished second grade—which means he is on to third (yea, just in case you couldn’t figure that one out on your own). I’m not so crazy about this. Oh sure I’m thrilled that academically he passed what he needed to get in to the next grade level, but third grade???? That is when it all gets serious. The teachers are not all lovey-dovey anymore. The work counts. I mean really counts and no one holds their hand anymore.

I have a very poor memory as well as a very selective one. There are huge chunks of my life that I rely on other people for when I can’t recall them. But I do remember third grade—I mean parts of it, but that is when a true recollection of being an older kid comes to play. I had a boyfriend; I got in trouble for passing a note in class. A boy at my table informed us all that everyone farts and it’s just another bodily function. Yep pretty sure he actually said, “bodily function.” I’m just not sure I’m ready for my son to be old enough for the third grade.

I may need to make something else clear here. I was and probably still am pretty terrified about being a mother. My childhood was, well pretty screwed up. Now I wasn’t abused or homeless and I always had food to eat, so “screwed up” is a relative term. Point being, when I was younger I wasn’t really exposed to healthy adult relationships. Honestly, how my mother and father ever actually believed that they should get married is beyond me. But they did and they got divorced, which now I know was the best possible thing—but it was a total shit storm when I was 8.

So anyway my brother and I were pretty sure we’d never get married because we would never trust anyone enough to love them…blah, blah, blah. We both did. Rick and I have been together for 16 years and married for 11. A couple of years in to the marriage we seriously began thinking about having children. Again I am hesitant. I mean I worry about all kinds of crap—needless, pointless crap. I would worry myself in to the ground if I had a kid.

“I just don’t know if I am up for it,” I said to Rick during another kid talk.

“But,” he said. “Ten years from now if we don’t have children, will you regret it?”

Oh, that one stung a little bit. A hole began to develop in my gut and I was pretty sure right then and there that the only thing worthy to fill it was our own little baby.

So we went on to have 2 children. “M” is now 4 and “N” is 8. They are relatively good kids—I’m not one of those who believe their kids walk on water, but I am very proud of them and very protective. Not protective in the “rolling them in bubble wrap before they go outside” kind of way, but just the normal “I want my kids to be healthy and happy” kind of way.

And yet I can’t help myself. I worry. I worried when they were babies if they had an overly aggressive projectile vomit. I worried when they didn’t talk as soon as the other kids. I worried about what I should feed them, what toys I should buy. I worried about what most parents worry about. Now that my son is older I worry about “older kid” things. Bullies, and self esteem, and being happy and respect for others and more importantly respect for themselves. I’m still not sure how to teach that.

I’m afraid that I need to learn fast, because third grade is where all of that stuff comes in to play. He needs to know it to survive and no one can tell me just how to teach it to him. And I know that is because there isn’t an easy answer. But that—that right there creates a gigantic hole in my gut and now I know that the only thing worthy to fill it is vodka and brownies.