I’m in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana it is love. And it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it.
When I was thirteen I changed my brother’s diapers and at nineteen I rocked my sister to sleep on our front porch swing. I remember the weight of her small, curled hand in my lap as she slept. This is what I want, I thought, not now, but some day.
I feel stretched, worn thin and the thing that bothers me most is that I seem to get to this place a lot, head in hands wondering what is wrong with me.
Well, I’m sitting here feeling like a pretty crappy mama. We missed Eliza’s class holiday performance tonight. We didn’t miss it because we chose not to go. We missed it because we were late and her class performed without her.
I only have a glimpse of it now but I think I’m starting to understand that we are parents forever.
Be gentle. Be kind. Be tender. Be vulnerable. I breathe these in. And it’s working.
I couldn’t see it through her fury but she’d wanted me to reassure her and I had, in many acts of stubbornness, drawn lines in the sand.
I have everything I’ve ever wanted. And for this, I am oh, so thankful.
I heard once from my therapist husband that boys need to move their bodies to talk about how they feel.
I don’t know if my need to purge had to do with the faux spring that was lurking outside my door or if my ability to clean and organize hit overdrive because of the small space we call home.