I don’t want to take you to the park today.
Am I even allowed to say that out loud?

I don’t want to chase after you, and watch you watch the other kids having fun.
I don’t want to glare at the other parents, trying to catch them staring at you and imagining them making judgments about you
While their healthy, chubby, “normal” children squeal and play stupid games
Like hide and seek, or tag, or kickball

I don’t want to try and convince you to climb up the stairs and slide down the slide and swing on the swing when all you really want is to jump up and down and flap your arms and escape from my heavy clutch so you can RUN

Free and Fearless

Possibly into the busy street just yards away
Possibly into the arms of a stranger
Possibly towards a group of children
That may reject you

I don’t want to ask you questions that you won’t answer
Like “are you having fun?” or “do you think this place is better than the park we went to yesterday?”

I don’t want to feel this way
But today I do
With impatience and frustration
Greeting me along with the rise of an indifferent sun
That insists on shining despite
The darkness in my heart

I don’t want to take you to the park today
And maybe that makes me weak
Or lazy
Or irresponsible
But if you should decide to crawl up here beside me
I will hold you
In my arms
And smell your hair
And whisper in your ear
Watch you effortlessly fall asleep
Because you feel safe
And I would be happy with that
Because I just don’t have
The energy
To chase you
At the park

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