Thursday, January 29, 2015

seven. and more than. and less than.

i have deleted more words than i have typed. which is literally impossible but, like, literally,  the truth.

i used to live my life waiting for the grand gesture, the crescendo. and i only wanted to win. therefore, i never tried. because you don't win every time and i would rather win in fantasy and be complacent in real life than try and fail. 

not really a good life plan.

my daughter turned seven today and her stories are not really mine to tell anymore in this venue. not that i divulged all that much to begin with. i mean, i'm not one to ever take my fingers to the internets and let them loose with humorous, cliched jokes about hating the assholery of my sociopathic children because there is a bad taste left in my laugh from that vaguely reminiscent of that time i threw up all over my white patent leather stilletos while hunched over on the sidewalk outside that bar in silverlake. as in: there is so much wrong that i don't even know where to pin the blame. 

three. now seven. these babies. the ones that aren't actually babies anymore. they are ever closer to being so much less a part of me that i instinctively want to hunker down with my legs over their bodies, as if i am protecting them from a tornado. because i want them to know i would lose my legs for them, at any given time.

the days, however, are sometimes more than cliche. they are mine. and i share the beauty in the moments on instagram and purposefully leave out the jagged voices and the challenging social constructs that come with being an adult with small children, no longer with babies. the mommy blogger is dying and the rest of us are still here. wondering how to stop ourselves from writing.

1 comment :

  1. This is perfect. Mostly because I feel exactly the same way about 8 and 3, but also because your writing is perfect.