Control

No matter how many times life tries to teach me the same lesson, I can not let go of my need to feel in control.

Have I picked the wrong career in farming? Do you think?

Last night, safely cradling my son in my arms as he slept peacefully, I had nightmare after nightmare involving him injured, hurt, crying, somewhere I couldn’t reach him, some way that had to be my fault. He’s learning to walk right now, hauling himself up on the coffee table and chairs and sofa and anything else that he determines looks reasonable. He falls, and so far has not hurt himself at all. Scared himself, yes, but not hurt, although the thunking noise his dense little body makes when it hits the floor sounds otherwise and makes my heart lurch. I thought I was fine with this. It’s how he will learn. The tip of his head is only two feet from the floor when he’s on his toes. That’s not very far. But clearly, my inner buried self is not at all okay with this. I can’t control his body for him . . .

So what does one do with nightmares? Usually I try to shake myself awake enough to redirect my thoughts. But last night, I didn’t really want to. I’m regularly up at night, spiraling thoughts of seeds and plants and beetles and schedules and boxes and weather and weeds and mowing and accounting and supplies and cats and dogs and ticks and dishes and baby food . . . My brain will dig deep enough for dirt that I’m feeling guilty at 3 am for not hanging the last load of laundry out on the line which I should have done because I’m trying to not use the dryer at least in part to save on propane for which I have a bill due that’s bigger than I expected because I failed to plan and act as I should have. Nightmares of Calvin were almost a diversion.

This particular summer is exceptionally hard for me. In past years, when I’ve seen the fields in need, the weeds getting too big, the mowing too far behind, I’ve simply strapped on the overalls and gone at it. I actually enjoy a lot of it after all. Or I enjoy the aftermath. Nothing feels better than looking at a clean vegetable bed, it’s such a demonstration of (guess what?) control.

For years, the farm was small enough, and I was motivated enough, to do this. I am unable to procrastinate, I do the worst things first, and I don’t usually stop till I’m done. Although I do remember feeling silly one night using the headlights on the little riding lawnmower to see. I kept wishing it had brights . . . But even were the farm still small enough for me to micromanage, I can’t this year. (Can’t is negative language I shouldn’t use according to a recent training class I’ve taken at the off-farm job—uh oh).

But I can’t! Calvin is my priority now, happily, and there is no way to strap him on and do the sorts of things I’m talking about. Believe me, I’ve tried, but he’s getting too big. Not to mention that he’d rather do something else, like walk. So I’ve tried very hard to not look, or to pretend I don’t see. But this does not work if you are like me. So I make suggestions, and they turn into nagging, and then into frantic demands, and then semi-hysterical predictions of doom.

Unfortunately, what I think is urgent and what my husband thinks is urgent are not often the same thing. Funny how it always seems to work out anyway. I know this, but can I let it go? No.

Can I let Calvin go and grow up? I start wondering if I’ll survive this.