Drizzly and windy, as is typical in November here.
I guess if the wind is actually driving drops through cracks and doorways, the rain doesn’t qualify as drizzle anymore.
I want to ask you questions and tell you things.
I want to ask if you were high last night, if the weirdness I experienced was
a result of being high,
nervous,
with your friends,
or what.
Becuase it was weird.
And it wasn’t fun.
It wasn’t a deal breaker. But it doesn’t bode well.
I want to ask if you were in your
right mind
when you asked me to come to you at 11pm, if you thought it was an
actual possibility
on a Sunday night when I have two kids at home, one of whom is 8. I want to believe that you’re just ignorant.
But I know better.
But I don’t want ultimatums.
Or, even the appearance of them.
Or suspicion.
They’re just honest questions.
I want you, to want me, enough to
choose kindness
over bro-behavior,
even if it means feeling a little
embarassed
or getting
chided
by them,
Treat me like a grown-up woman with a
life
full of responsibility rather than a single girl who only has to worry about getting to work on time the next day.
I don’t get to call in sick.
I do not want to be put in a position to chastise.
Inform, sure, but
no chastisement.
So, because you’re not a parent, I know you’re ignorant of some things.
So, here is me, giving you, some
information
so you can make the
choices
for your life and so you can see how your choices aren’t made
in isolation,
even at this early stage.
You see, I asked you early enough in the day that we could have made plans. And
you chose
not to tell me “no”, or even “maybe”. Instead, you
ignored me,
letting me sit tight during the time
I needed to ensure my kids were fed and loved.
You chose
to leave me in some kind of limbo. I don’t know for what purpose. Maybe no purpose. But the motivation doesn’t matter since
I don’t have room for limbo
in my day to day happenings.
It steals
energy from my mind and heart.
It hurts me. And, in turn, it hurts my kids. Any energy that isn’t put toward
maintaining or building
our life and health and emotions, is
stolen and diverted
from those things. It’s kind of like having a hole in your pocket and having your change slowly slip away and getting to the store and finding out
you don’t have enough
for the milk.
I also wanted to tell you that I’m ready to “throw in” with someone in life. But more than that, I’m ready for someone to “throw in” with me. But there is a catch of sorts. You see, I cannot throw in with you on your life. I cannot hitch myself to your wagon, your dreams, unless they happen to share a significant amount of what I’ve already got going on. My life is not my own. I’ve already thrown in with these kids of mine.
But there is room for you.
So
much
room. And I will throw in with loving you, showing you how to
fill that place
held for you.
You, in our lives, will be
loved and adored,
driven mad, left bewildered, allowed to
swell with pride,
expected to shoulder a load, to help guide those in shouldering their own loads, be comforted and be comforting.
Schedules, routines, lessons, homework, tutors, teachers, performances…
Truly, the next 5-10 years are about raising children and all that goes with it.
But, not only about children. It will be
making love
often and deeply.
It will be playing with each other, verbal banter, gentle tickles and wrestling. It will be planning and
making plans happen.
It will be grocery shopping and chopping veg together. It will be
reading snippets
from things we find amusing, or challenging, or simply that touch us in some way. It will be
your favorite gum
purchased when I fill up the gas tank, because I can. It will be backrubs and
forehead kisses. It will be
the “co” of commiserate.
It will be those big and little things that make life bearable in all its awful wonder.
You see, I know how to
love deliberately.
I think you might know how, too. But I’ve had a lot more years of being
selfless
than you. And a lot more years experiencing the selfishness of others. I’ve got some room for you to grow, but I don’t have years for you to
figure things out.
You’ll have to decide if this
crazy and gorgeous life
of mine is something in which you’re willing to
swim and thrive,
and then,
you have to jump.