I worried, less than a year ago, that I would be a terrible parent, that despite years of teaching I'd suddenly be unable to cope with a single child. That I'd drop her, or break her, or even worse simply fail her in some profound way so that she grew up sad, angry, and confused about why I did that to her. In the quiet, dark moments I spent lying awake beside her I wondered if I would take after my father and somehow be unable to stop myself turning into him and driving her away with fists and harsh, mocking laughter. I worried about losing Lena and being left with a girl I couldn't possibly understand. I worried about being unable to talk to her, or whether she'd turn out like me and our combined silence would drive my wife to distraction. I worried about losing her, like I worry about losing everyone. In spite of all this fretting, I figured that by the time she was fourteen, we'd have it sort of worked out, be almost forty years old and have some semblance of a grip on life. In short, it would be very different to having a fourteen year old dropped into your life and scrambling to make the best of it.
I don't know how to deal with him. I don't know what he needs, I don't know what he wants, nor do I know what he likes to do, his favourite food, colour, the names of his friends, what vaccinations he's had, where his birth certificate is, who is listed as his next of kin, what he's allergic to, when he last had a doctor's appointment, what the hell the name of his asthma medication is, or any of the other stuff that I really do need to know. Things that I assume I'd have got to know over the last fourteen years if he'd been mine. As it is, I'm fumbling around in the dark, making huge catastrophic mistakes, and lying awake at night worrying. He needs new clothes; I have no idea where to take him, no clue what he likes, and a sneaking suspicion that we'll be that teenager/adult pair having a quiet, vicious row in the middle of a department store.
Worrying about all these things now, brings back the quiet panicking I did while she was pregnant, except there's no one telling me not to be so ridiculous, and to shut up and go to sleep already. I've been on my own for seven months now, which seems an interminably long time and is the longest I've been single since I was twelve. It still scares the shit out of me, as well as being somewhat liberating. Unfortunately I don't do well with freedom, I devolve into a shambling, shuffling, dishevelled creature, wearing the same paint stained shirt for a week, and forgetting how to talk to people other than myself. I smoke too much, drink too much, and attempt to live on a biscuit and tea diet. Luckily Godson has adopted a pack of friends and is running wild over London, occasionally stopping by to complain that there's no food, drink soda, and lounge in front of the television in bizarre yellow and purple pyjamas, leaving me free to carry on my semi-feral existence.
In an attempt to remember how to relate to people I have a date tomorrow night. Accepting seemed like a good idea at the time, now...I am not so sure. Real clothes? Shaving? Taming my hair? Attempting polite conversation, appearing interested, talking about myself (the horror), navigating through crowds, eating nice food in public, not blurting out that I'm sort of heartbroken and still talk to my wife. I might as well try climbing Everest.
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