|Gah this picture stinks I am awaiting my new iPhone|
When I was in my early twenties, I lived in Manhattan. I wanted the fancy job, the fancy clothes, and an apartment bigger than my childhood bedroom (didn't even have to be fancy). I wanted to dine at fancy restaurants and hobnob with smart and fancy people. Oh, who am I kidding: I probably just wanted to be her.
But sometimes people smarten up in their twenties; I'm not sure I did, but I started to wonder that even with a little more fancy here and there, I wasn't terribly happy. And that the path to even more fanciness - namely, a lot more of work that didn't really thrill me - might not be a path I wanted to follow.
It was a visit from my parents that I think began to change what I wanted out of life: it struck me that my parents, my dorky parents (dorky because of course they weren't fancy urbanites comme moi), married since forever, living the suburban dream were....happy. And with a sudden clarity I knew I wanted that happiness, that regular happiness that some of us might be lucky enough to drink of in this life. It's a happiness born of a life well lived, and having people to love, and doing just that.
Things changed. Well, a lot, but that's another tale. And then I met PVT. Suddenly it seemed like that kind of happiness - nay, an even better happiness - euphoria! - was attainable.
And it was.
But it wasn't until I had you, Keane, until I looked into your turquoise blue eyes and your perfect round face (oh but really! You were perfect! I will never forget how shocked I was at your perfection - how could this seraph have come from my broken, partied-out body? You didn't even have a cleft palate, like I was sure you would!), that I knew that this was what I was meant to do on this earth. That I was supposed to be a mother, your mother (and eventually all of your siblings' mother). I'm not sure anything I ever did up to that point in my life even mattered.
Now hold on: I'm not saying I'm a GOOD mother. I yell to much. I nag. I could never homeschool you because my patience with homework is less than negative (thankfully your father is both patient and far more proficient at homework help). I despise crafts viscerally (every time your poor sister asks for help with her sewing machine a silent F-bomb explodes in my brain). I am very, very impatient. I can take a lot of barbs and then I detonate for a small slight. I still rely on a bit of wine to glide me through the witching hours. I like things clean at the expense of creativity. I freak out and become slightly crazed and irrational if any of you become sick or hurt. And the screen time I allow so I can do laundry or zone out on Facebook? Shameful.
But if there is anything I want you - and your many, many siblings - to know, it is that I have loved each of you so fiercely just as you are: that I have strived to see you and know you, all of you and each of you, as the individuals that you are, not some idealized kid, son or daughter. I have wanted to spend as much time as possible with all of you (after you go to that magical place called school). In fact, I would rejoice if extracurricular activities were somehow forever banned; there is nothing I love more than having you all here at night, goofing around, chatting, squabbling. Except for the occasional date night with your Dad, I don't like being apart from you all at night. I detest doing things - even fun things - on weeknights. First and foremost, I am a mother. Your mother. And that matters more than anything to me.
|Cross Country 2015|
|Sushi Birthday Dinner|
|Good big brother|