Children scare me. Children are incomprehensible to me. They’re too complicated for me to analyze, for me to understand, for me to learn. I don’t understand their imaginations, their questions that seldom have an answer, their curiosity, their rudeness, their misunderstanding of the world around them.
Sometimes I want to remember what kind of child I was. I want to remember if I asked the same questions, if I had imaginary friends, if I yelled or screamed for not getting the toy I wanted. But I don’t remember. I don’t remember…and I wish I could.
When I see a mother holding that small, tiny hand, I fear that one day I will make the same mistake, the mistake of motherhood. When I see a mother holding a tiny baby in her arms, I can’t imagine being that selfless, selfless enough to make sacrifices, to give up things, to give up my morning sleep, to take care of a little person that needs extra attention. I can’t imagine being selfless enough to love that child the way mothers do, to love it unconditionally. I can’t imagine being selfless enough to raise a child, who knows nothing, who has so much to learn, has so many needs. I won’t know how to answer a child’s question. I don’t know those answers. I don’t know why the sky is blue, I don’t know if there is a heaven or hell. I just don’t know.
Maybe I’m still a child. Maybe I don’t know how to be selfless yet. Maybe I still need a hand to hold mine. Maybe I’m just afraid of letting go of mother’s hand…maybe I’m still a child who doesn’t want to grow up.