Hello, my name is JudyBat, and I'm a neurotic parent

I thought I had a pretty good idea of the kind of parent I'd be long before the boy came along. Anna Ray and I used to enjoy judging the parenting styles of friends and familiy, because why should we wait to to gain any practical knowledge of a subject before casting aspersions on how others approach it? I was never going to be one of those parents, for example, playing mozart for my unborn child, weening him on a steady diet of Baby Einstein tapes and enrolling him in pre-school SAT prep classes. There would be no academic pressure coming from me, no siree bob. But I found myself just the other day thinking I haven't been growing his brain properly because after a week of pointing out the color of things to him, he still hands me the red ring when I ask him for the yellow one. I consoled myself with the thought that maybe he's just color blind.

And I always thought my most important job as a parent - right after not killing the baby - was to raise an independent child, to send him into the world with no apron strings attached. (A relatively simple task, you'd think, since I don't even wear an apron.) I would not be a hoverer; I would not have a clingy kid. If he fell and scraped his knee I would say to him, as my mother said to me: "don't bleed on the carpet." Apparently,I'm doing the job right, but I can't say I'm pleased with the results.

Today we went out for a walk, which for The Boy means a bobbing stomp of a run down the sidewalk. I let him run ahead, confident that he will stop when he gets to the street, turn around and hold up his hand for me to hold as we cross. (This gesture kills me. It crumbles my heart into tiny pieces. How did I merit such a sweet, sweet boy?) He's independent, yes, but so far the kid knows his boundaries. On this day, however, the kid did not know his limits. He bobbled just a little to fast and out of control and into a face plant on the concrete. I held my breath for a second to see what he would do - it always takes a second for them to decide whether to laugh or cry - and when he let out a wail I was right there beside him to dust him off and hold him in my arms. But he didn't want my comfort. He wanted his blankie.

So there I am, proud that the kid wants to stand on his own tiny feet, and horrified that he's crying for an inanimate object when his own mother is kneeling right there next to him. The worst part of it is: he calls his blankie "daddy."