It had nothing to do with my toothache. Instead, I found myself laying with my head on my pillow, unable to block the horrific images pushing their way in though the outer edges of my consciousness.
It was Aidan and I on a plane. Said plane was about to crash. I grabbed him and held him and told him I hoped I'd see him again, told him how much I loved him and how proud of him I was. How happy I was to be his mom. How I always felt like the luckiest person in the whole world. And I laid there in bed wondering if I'd be able to be strong enough for him, if I could make it all okay even in those last short minutes of our lives.
Is that f'ing horribly psychotic or what??
I'm going to be honest: I never knew fear until I was a parent. I thought I did. Hell, I watched the evening news. I even did my time in the Army. I knew what "life" was all about. But nothing can ever prepare you for the overwhelming feeling of helplessness that is involved when you give life to another human being and then have to suffer with not being there 24/7 to make sure they don't do something dumb.
Dumb things that have happened that eventually gave rise to my "Fuck yeah, parenting" t-shirt:
- One got his foot totally wedged in the boards of a pallet.
- One dropped a 12" x 12" block on his big toe and lost his nail.
- One attempted to shave his face with a razor I left in the bathtub and cut his lip open.
- One tried climbing his dresser and got pinned beneath it.
- One leaned on the glass shower door and it opened - he fell and split his neck open on the metal frame and had to get four stitches.
- One swatted a wrought-iron candle holder with a broomstick and it crashed onto his toe - he lost his nail and a whole lot of blood.
- One fell backward off the couch and hit his head on the tile floor.
I feel like this should be a Bounty paper towel commercial. On that note, I'm off to do something productive. I'm sure somehow, somewhere, there's an accident waiting to happen.