In NYC, if it's on the sidewalk it's yours for the taking. I have a piercing regret: walking past this headless dog about three years ago and not taking him home. It was about twenty blocks from our apartment and at the height of the bedbug bedlam, and yet every time I see these pictures I know that he was sitting and waiting for me. I think about that dog weekly, if not daily. He was a gift for me, and like him, I could not see.
I rarely regret things that happen -- or don't happen -- in life. The waves of disappointment can be ridden; the wrinkles of lost opportunities can be smoothed by the belief that new opportunities will present. I'm a believer of: "things happen for a purpose." Except. Except when it comes to my parenting. I regret not being more cheerful. I regret not being more fun. I regret getting screachy over something stupid. I regret saying something in a mean tone. I regret not giving more choices. I regret losing the eternal perspective. I regret caring what other people think. I regret not being more patient. I regret not being more creative. I regret not spending more time. I regret I can't be more perky like Mom A. I regret that I can't be more efficient and calm like Mom B.
I don't know what to do with this.
I wish that I had that dog. I know that he would soothe me when I feel sad about being snippy with the offspring. I see myself: doing the rounds at night -- looking in on sleeping faces and feeling that pang that comes to see them so innocent, and yet getting so long in their beds. Wondering what kind of monster yells at such precious beings. Wondering if what I'm doing is so all-wrong that they'll never be able to reach their potential, and end up sad and wasted adults. I would pad out of their room, prepare a cup of herbal tea with honey, and then sit and stroke his not-head and feel like all would be well, that somehow even things that aren't perfect, can still be wonderful and whole.
