July 2008
So I went to my therapist the other day, hoping to spend my fifty five minutes blaming my mother for my fearfulness, when He elects to comment on my mothering skills. Eleven years treating me. You would think He would know better. Firstly, I am a perfectionist, thus ragingly allergic to criticism in any form. Secondly, I am 3 months pregnant. This would be fine, had I not managed to convince myself that custard is a food group (hence my rapidly deteriorating arse aesthetic) and that anyone within a five metre radius of me deserves the barrage of obscenities of which they will be the likely beneficiaries.
Never mind. Amidst all this, my therapist decides that now would be as good a time as any to talk to me about how my ‘unconscious’ is driving some of my parenting skills. For those that didn’t have the pleasure of reading Freud, essentially, my therapist is accusing me of depositing my baggage squarely on my two year old son. I am already wracked with guilt because of my short fuse with Liam and now, apparently, he is also the recipient of the sorry remnants of my own childhood.
Fuck.
My therapist is a smart man. And He knows me. He points out the truth.
“Usually, you get defensive when I mention anything related to you as Mother.” (He says ‘Mother’ in a way that sounds as if it should have a capital letter)
Ever so swiftly, He renovates the attack into a palatable compliment.
“You’re too quick. One minute, we’re getting into parenting stuff, and the next, you’ve used your wit to send us off onto a completely different tangent.”
I love Him. He thinks I’m clever and funny.
And so, the conversation is allowed its rightful space.
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