Five minute free write.
Never more a mama than when I’m picking nits. The tiniest buggers you have ever barely seen. Maddening. Moving. Meals and mouthfuls and moss covered minced words growing from rocks in a humid forest.
Moving. Nothing like meandering. Easy to idealize the past. Easy to idealize the future. Is it easy to be present? You would think that would be easiest of all, since it’s all here.
Cold sores, bottom lip, turning orange now. Oozing. Biblical. Job. Plagues. Patience. Could be worse. Facing biggest fears. Mom, will you and Dad ever get divorced? I asked. I was probably about V’s age.
Pearl, the sweetest peanut ever. Aviva, this morning, so tired, blaming me since I had to comb and pick nits until 11:30 last night. She fell asleep sitting up in the bathroom as I hummed quietly. Aviva, this morning, angry, sullen. Then sweet, buoyant. She will be who she will be. She already is.
I took a picture of them this morning sleeping in my bed. His bed.
Bumped into someone I haven’t seen in a long time this morning on the steps of the Y after finally dropping Pearl off. It was around noon. Told her what’s happening. Congratulations, congratulations. She kept saying it, until finally I realized I wasn’t hearing her, wasn’t listening to that word, wasn’t letting it in. Finally I stopped. I did. I heard her. And that’s when I actually showed up, and suddenly was there with her on the steps, actually there.
I told her how my mother thinks “our culture” in “this day and age” in “places like Burlington” makes it “easy” to do “this kind of thing,” i.e. split up a family, come out. A permissiveness. Support for this.
I am becoming more patient with her, but it’s hard. I feel defensive–what would she have me do? Be less supported? As if it’s easy, even now, even here. Then I get that seed of doubt–what if she’s right?
Is it just a habit to think I still have so much to do, so much “work on myself” to do? Finally, can it be enough?
And that’s when I know what I need is a hot bath and an early night and so much sleep, a lumbering mama bear in search of some deep, dark den.