Monday, February 18, 2013

Unscathed... Sort Of

One of my greatest fears in raising my son (and any future children we might have) is passing on my (many) neuroses.  I inherited so many of my parents' problems.  So many undesirable familial traits that our brown eyes and thin wrists are, in the cafe of genetics, drowned out by the din of phobia, depression, addiction, walls built so high and thick that the few who tunnel in are usually sorry they did.
It's recently struck me since having a child that my personal attachment to these neuroses is waning.
I realized this change while listening to Bjork's song Hyperballad, the lyrics of which I had never given much thought:
We live on a mountain
Right at the top
There’s a beautiful view
From the top of the mountain
Every morning I walk towards the edge
And throw little things off
Like:Car parts, bottles and cutlery
Or whatever I find lying around
I go through all this
Before you wake up
So I can feel happier
To be safe up here with you
(lyrics posted entirely without permission)
Besides our fantastical, magical wardrobes, Bjork and I apparently have something in common.  We psych ourselves up for the day for our kids, for our families. We shake off the nasties and pull ourselves up by the old bootstraps because nobody wants a crazy mother despite how appealing her craziness made her toward boys at nineteen.
I feel that I usually do a pretty good job of this.  The fact of the matter is: I am not one of those cooing, adorable moms who revels in playgroup and layette clothing.  I hope Oliver loves me for these characterisitcs and not in spite of them, but if he doesn't, you know, kind of oh well.