Zachary has meticulously constructed an aluminum foil hat and wrapped it around his head.

"So that aliens can't read my mind," he says.

Sam runs in circles around me chanting, "Juice, juice," while Zachary makes a bracelet for his stuffed bear to show they are members of the best friends club.

We look strange, but nothing dangerous or illegal is going on at this particular moment so I determine everything is okay.

For some reason lately I can't get certain memories of my own childhood out of my mind. I want to borrow Zach's aluminum foil hat, but Sam is already waiting not too patiently for it to be his turn. I want a turn too. The past is gone forever; long live the past. For most of my adult life my childhood memories have been primarily blank spots; absences, that were occasionally punctuated by a remembrance of something phenomenally positive or profoundly tragic. The memories are mostly static: white noise, detached and distant and more like someone else's experiences. The channel between channels. The snow on the TV in the middle of the night.

Being a parent has some frightening side effects that I hadn't anticipated. It brings me back. I am a child again wearing parent's clothing. The clothes don't fit and I am an incompetent fraud, but I'm in this parent thing knee-deep. There is no way around it but through it. I am a sheep in wolf's clothing. Some days I feel like I'm wandering around in a dream that appears frighteningly realistic. I bide my time waiting to wake up. The alarm will go off soon. I'll shake my head with a sense of 'wow, that was weird' and go about my real life.

"Follow the rules. Don't draw outside the lines."

Today I have one month of sobriety. And I am psychologically preparing myself to go bankrupt tomorrow so I am filled more with a sense of failure than accomplishment. The papers are prepared and I will head down to court tomorrow to hand them over to a clerk. Then I will wait, go to court, publicly admit that I'm a deadbeat, and hopefully be absolved of my financial sins. I'm immersed in my own misfortune and the consequences of my poor choices right now, and I'm feeling sorry for myself. A dangerous psychic spot for an alcoholic. A place all too familiar to me.

I officially decided to stop counting sober days, but I count the days anyway. I fall into the category of chronic relapser so counting days started to feel counterproductive. Chronic relapser. The term makes me think of a stain that goes through the laundering process time and again, but only succeeds in fading -- never disappearing. Each washing pushes the stain deeper and deeper into the fabric almost assuring its longevity, its permanency.

Sam pats me on the shoulder and wishes me a Merry Christmas. It is late February and four days past his 4th birthday. Sam's PDD has taken on a surreal quality lately. He is improving, but his improvement are mixed with his eccentricities.

I was sitting on my bed the other night on the verge of tears after hanging up from my last creditor call of the day.

Sam approached me gently and exclaimed, "Good job, Mommy."

"Thanks, Sam, I'm trying".

He high-fives me then approaches the cat. "Good job, Truman. High-five."

Truman pauses from compulsively licking his butt, regards Sam briefly, and then returns to his butt-grooming.

Sam responds, "That's it. I'm outta here." He wanders off speaking the gibberish only he understands.

There are moments. Moments when things come together and moments when things fall apart. I am between moments now. For me this is balance.

Regina Walker is a psychotherapist in NYC. Her work has appeared in The Philosophical Mother, Hip Mama, Literary Vision, Mamaphiles 2, The Future Generation, Moondance, and widdershins.