You are about 18 months old. But I'm never good at keeping track of how old you are in "months". That kind of thing never really matters to me.
Usually I'm more concerned about how happy you are, or satisfied that I did the right thing by both of us. And you are happy. So happy. Your daddy makes you laugh and your mama gives you hugs when you need them.
Two nights ago that's not what concerned me either, though. I was crying for myself instead. I was lying in bed trying to go to sleep. I had had a rough day, in my own terms. Nothing really went right. I had woken up at 7:00 am that morning, uncomfortably hot. Jumped down from my high bed, grabbed a pillow and attempted to fall back asleep on the couch. My mother was up, too, as usual. Her footsteps were too noisy for a struggling sleeper. When she finally left for work, I fell into a deep sleep only to be rudely awoken 20 minutes later by a yowling Frank the cat, who is, in fact, female. She's been inexplicably yowling for years, and seemingly arbitrarily. I had hoped that her unearthly vocalizations would cease after a few minutes, but this was not the case. When she did finally stop and I did finally return to sleep, I was only plagued by vivid dreams. This is normal -- recently. I can almost always recall them. And they are almost always symbolic or meaningful.
This particular dream involved my mother returning home from work, picking up the paint I'd been using to repaint her garden gnomes and attempting to paint the living room walls with it. When I "woke up", mother was yelling at me that I should have been helping her paint the walls an ungodly electric teal color and, furthermore, it was all my fault that the color was inappropriate for a living room. I couldn't disagree more, and wondered why she didn't just paint a swatch instead of the entire living room.
Then I woke up. [Insert lame Inception reference here].
At this point it was about 9:45 am and it was time to get up for an 11:00 meeting at work. Back in my room, Michael was at his computer, checking his email.
"Today is not going to be my day," I divulged and promptly stubbed my toe on Percy's litterbox.
The meeting, it turned out, was actually scheduled for 10:00 am and, as a result, I was late by 30 minutes.
So there I lay in bed with Percy curled up in my armpit on my right, and Michael snuggling on my left. I turned to him and said, "I miss Zoey so much today," and there began the continuous, hot tears pouring down my face. Michael did his best to to soothe me, "You did the right thing. Zoey is happy and Kelly & Ali are the best parents for her. There was nothing you could do."
I say nothing. Because, quite frankly, I don't give a shit. About 5 times a year I give myself leave from my selfless emotions to be completely selfish and miserable. And, dammit, I deserve it. I'm your birthmother. All I want to think about is how at this moment I would give nothing more than for you to fall asleep on my chest so that I could listen to you as you sleep. And when you wake up, I want be there to see your cranky little face.
I want to see your cranky little face.
I love you.
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