Until about age 2, Buzz and I had a bond that could not be broken. It was strong, crushing, immeasurable. It was a me and him against the world mentality. To this day, I’m still the one he runs to first. I’m the one he looks for if he happens to wake in the middle of the night. I understand him better, and I always have.
I didn’t have such a fierce connection like this with Jedi. It’s not even as close with Abby. It was just like electricity that struck between Buzz and I.
Around age 2 is when I was in the uncomfortable burgeoning midst of my pregnancy with Abby. I didn’t have the stamina nor capacity to be how I was before, not to mention the body armor as the boy grew rough. And now, I don’t have the hands, energy, or patience for much of anything.
It doesn’t take a child psychologist to surmise this is why he acts out like he does. It’s for attention. The attention he wants, the attention I used to be able to hand out in immeasurable scoops. It’s frustrating, on numerous levels. For both of us.
And so there is guilt. Guilt for not being there enough, even though I’m right here. Guilt for being aggravated when I know I shouldn’t be, it’s just as much my fault as it is his. Guilt for not helping him more. Guilt for not feeling as connected to him as I once did. Guilt for cussing him under my breath some days. Guilt for absolutely despising this age and stage that he’s currently immersed in. There are so many I don’t’s that I could throw out right now and not nearly enough I can’s.
Every mother has guilt over something. This is mine.