like me

“He is so much like me…it worries me,” I said to my therapist at my appointment last week.

I was talking about Eddie.

I talk about him a lot in therapy.

Being a mom is hard for me.  His being placed in my arms didn’t do that thing that I thought it would do.  I thought it would transform me into a crying emotional ball of love and gratitude for the perfect being that I grew in my tummy.

But instead I was left confused. And tired. And depressed. And anxious. And resentful.

I’m still confused.

And tired.

Our relationship is like nothing I have ever experienced before.

I suppose that should be a given…that it is obvious.  But for some reason it surprises me daily, hourly even.

It’s a strange thing seeing a tiny version of yourself walking around in the world.

And Eddie truly is a small version of me in almost every way possible.

I watch him play and think out loud to himself and I can remember doing the same thing when I was small.  He has trouble falling asleep when there are things on his mind just like me.  When something bothers or worries or puzzles him he needs to talk it out, just like I do.

He also worries.

A lot.

He thinks about big things that seem too big for a 3 year old to worry about.

Like the idea of “forever” and “death” and “heaven”.

He asks questions I don’t know the answers to for my own mind let alone how to put something into words that will soothe the worry of such a small little guy.

“I worry about him turning out like me.”

“Is that bad?”

“I just don’t want him to…end up…here,” I say as I look around my therapist’s office, “you know, no offense or anything.”

He is emotional. Dramatic. Worrisome.

He is me.

He wears his heart on his sleeve and cannot tell a lie.

He is me.

He gets excited about the smallest things and cries over even smaller things.

He is me.

But…he is also Eddie.

He is NOT me.

He is Eddie.

He loves me fiercely…and I love him madly.

And I hope I am enough for him…

so he doesn’t end up like me.

Ok, maybe he can be a little like me.