Sam probably thinks I’m nuts. Every time she asks me to look after Ivy I stall. I look around, hoping to find something to distract her from this dangerous line of questioning.
I hum, haw, tap my foot. Get antsy.
Now, keep this in mind. It’s not cause I don’t like to, or don’t want to.
Straight up, it’s because I’m scared. I’m not sure what I’m scared of exactly, but Stephen @ Live Granades in an old post summed it up succinctly:
“Each time I keep him I think, this is the time that I’ll feel like I know what I’m doing. So far, that hasn’t happened. I need some kind of manual. I can’t believe people let me take care of this person even though I don’t have a clue about what I’m doing.”
You’d think there would be licenses for parenthood. I drive a car, and I had to get a license to do that – c’mon, I could kill someone if I didn’t know what I was doing.
And somehow, raising a kid is different? Whoah!
And in the spirit of honesty, I must do alright. Everytime Sam has come home Ivy has been alive and well. I can manage diaper changes and whining, and crying and cartoons and buckets for hats and growling and everything. I can manage hours if she’s (Sam) in bed, and there if I need her, and usually, I don’t.
But to be left alone with a child who I am supposed to be responsible for? Scary.
And next March, we have 2. Somehow I imagine it’s going to be more than twice as hard, and scary to match.