Remember when you were nursing your baby and your mind would wander to all sorts of things. That's how it feels on a peaceful night when I put mom to bed and then climb up half lying on the metal rail and half smashed next to her and Christmas music is on and my mom's still here.
When you have your mom to yourself as a kid, when she's single and there's various men she's interested in or interested in her, you always want her to like them less than you. You own her. Those people are nothing.
I was lying there thinking all those men disappeared, all that desire left, all that intrigue didn't make it to this bed here. But it was all fabric, you had to have that to keep life interesting. Life is all about securing love. Does he love me. Will she love me. Not because it had to be, but because love is like sledding down a Christmas hill when you have mittens and coat and boots and hot chocolate waiting at home. Love is everything there is. Worth every second.
My mom used her life well. As well as she could. She had me and my brother and she had a fucking life, man. She had sex loudly and she didn't obsess about us or second guess her parenting, even when she probly should have. She was alone, supported by my dad and her jobs, a lone mom. She did all the driving. I'm not sure I would have done as well.
It just seems like life hurtles you so fast how is there time for all this childhood, college, work, grandkids, frolic, love, travel, death. I'm scared of things wrapping up so fast, even though it seems to take so long, I'm scared of not getting enough. It's like we're only dosed so much maple syrup and my stack of pancakes is sky high and soaks up a lot. I need ALOT.
I don't want to miss one thing.
Tonight I'm grateful for every little thing that happened to me, good, bad, dull, smart, smooth. I'm glad for the whole life still here and me floating in it.
