on the occasion of his birth month
I can't wait
until you say "No"
get red in the face,
tell me you hate me.
Because this --
this is torture.
I hold you
and feel seasick with the weight of 1000 crushes.
This love
this crazy love
which has no soundtrack.
Whiny boys who pine.
Whorey gals who burn with passion.
Their love is wonderfully intense
like riding recklessly
in a speeding car.
This was crashing.
I was destroyed.
I went to seed.
I love
your incompetent slug-like kisses
trailing across my cheek, my arm.
I didn't like babies.
I figured I'd endure
to get to the good stuff.
But from day one
you have punished me with your cuteness.
You connected me with eternity.
You honor those who've passed.
Now I spend my days living for you
but trying not to talk about you.
Trying desperately not to be a bore.
Every minute I'm not talking about you is an effort.
Nearly a year of trying to "act natural" but I bet they can see my beady little eyes darting around for an opportunity to wax lyrical about your latest incredible dull acheivement.
And I don't blog about you, out of respect to the me I was before you, a woman would've rolled her eyes and clenched her teeth at the estrogen-soaked mess I've become.
And maybe I keep mum out of fear that love broadcast will summon the fates to snatch you away or render you rotten.
You are good and full of grace.
Thank God for your father. He has been my rock and his capacity for soaking up minutiae of you is limitless. I would tell you more, but he is British. And he is a man. And I've already embarrassed him into next week. Say no more!
And I would lay down my life,
if it meant you would go on for one moment longer.
I try to bank your snuggles, your eye rubs and your joy. I want to remember holding you on the carpeted nursery floor as the sun sets -- insane with love, convinced that I could die happy. I want to be able to dip back into this feeling when you crash my car, move away, steal from my purse, join a cult, date someone who hates me.
You made my life less important. You have softened my body and my mind.
I can't thank you enough. You have fulfilled me.
When I am old and hardened, wave this in my face. Shame me. Remind me.
Just don't become a serial killer for Moses sake, OK?
Love,
Mom
