. . . to say, so little time (or drive, whatever.)
Let me just say this:
I’m not a put-upon wife. Not any more than any other spouse in the universe is put-upon. In fact, I think I have a pretty good handle on the demands of my marriage (or lack of demands, whatever.)
I am not (really) boyish. Yes I have short hair. Yes I have broad shoulders. Yes I do look quite a bit like my brother when I have no makeup on, but in person you wouldn’t think of me as boyish. Maybe I am quasi-queer and that’s why I married a sensitive gay guy. Whatever. I am what I am, he is what he is, whatever underlying mess that led us to each other is really immaterial in the scope of things. We are here, we will continue to be here, and we hopefully will spawn greatness throughout eternity if all goes as planned. This exterior is just so much terrestrial matter anyhow. It’s the core spirit child that really counts, and she is perfect.
I experienced physical pain last night while watching a love scene in a movie. More terrestrial matter getting in the way again. Eyes on the prize. Eyes on the prize.
Last week, #1 son, the “precious” one, stopped me as I came into his room to put him to bed. “Mom, I wanted to tell you something,” he said.
“What is it?” I said.
“Oh, I really like this,” waving his hand at my outfit.
“What do you like?” I asked.
“Oh!” I said, “which part? My sparkly sandals?”
“No, just the whole thing. I really like it.”
Again, this is a 5 year old boy.
And then, he asks for a “barn” cake for his birthday. It was a John Deere birthday party and we gave out tractors as the favors. His life revolves around fire trucks, race cars, airplanes, star wars and playing in the dirt.
I don’t get it.