No, I’m not a pessimist. I don’t hold grudges and I’m not big on resentments (although I’ve got a few… but they’re reserved for a select few ears connected to bodies holding Crown and Coke, so I’ve benched them for a couple more months although, from time to time, when I’m feeling feisty, and a bit melancholic, and when I’ve got death metal cued up on my playlist, I’ll dabble a bit). I like to call myself a realist; I’m aware there’s feces, and I’ll open the door with my sleeve, thankyouverymuch.
I don’t air quotes get three out of four of my kids this weekend and so I air quotes miss out on seeing them on Sunday, which is Mother’s Day. While everyone else is eagerly anticipating their haphazardly planted pea shoots in Solo cups, I’m giving a whole lot of zero fucks about the whole thing.
About three days ago, Jake texted me in a panic feeling like maybe his bottom left wisdom tooth had left a dry socket. I told him I’d be right over to have a look. It was mid-day. Katie and Callum were sitting in the van, the sun was white-knuckling its grip on some pretty menacing cloud cover and I stood with Jake on the sidewalk, facing him, so that I could have a look into his mouth. It was difficult for him to open much. I held his bearded chin in my hands, my fingers grazing his jaw, my baby, a man, all in front of me and all he was and all he is and all he ever will be, trusting his mama, my son’s reflection in the light of my eyes while I searched what he gave me, all of him that moment had all of me, he always has, he always will, and his wounds were healing fine.
His wounds are healing fine. So are mine.
That’s Mother’s Day.
Sunday can fuck right off.