A common concern for your average parent is: “Am I fucking up my kids?” Some think it with a little more tact, though tact is not my personal strong suit. However all parents think it from time to time.

With me and Pat it’s a little different. I’m a mental and emotional one (wo)man wrecking ball. Pat isn’t always much better. So for us the question is slightly different. It’s “How am I fucking up my kids?” We’ve come to accept they are going to have problems. Some hereditary, some not. So now it’s just a matter of keeping an eye on them and getting them the proper help when the time comes.

Am I seeing early signs? Sometimes yes, sometimes no.

Thomas was actually in therapy for a very short while a couple of years back. We were seeing something going on in that head of his, we just weren’t sure what. Therapy didn’t quite pan out. She was very good with him but he was too immature to cooperate fully. He was only 5 or so at the time. But it was a start. I did manage to prove to myself that when the time really comes for him to need therapy, indeed it will come, I’m ok getting him help. I know what to do. I know who to call. I’m also ok with standing back and letting someone step in a talk to him.

In the mean time love and affection is the best cure for a 6 and 2 year old.

But here is another question that I wonder about all the time. One I don’t have an answer to. Knowing I’m as fucked up as I am, did I have any business having kids? To be fair I had my breakdown and got my diagnosis after I had Thomas. But what about Luke?

Is loving them as much as I love them enough to make up for all this?