Bent Words

Bent Words

May 15, 2015

There are times when I miss those days. Feeling alive to the point that you tingle all over, head to toe, fingertips and wanting lips. The sun and the wind colliding together into a warm, nearly-summer night. Those youth and adrenaline infused days where you could shake off the effects of booze and weariness so easily; making the most of the morning, high noon and well into the intrepid night.

Ten hours of work followed by two hours of volleyball, sand, tunes and refilled pitchers. Restless weekends on my own making me wonder how I drew such a crowd. Race gas and sun rises, forgetting your mortality for another turn of the throttle, the thrill of the competition sizing you up each day. A full weekend of not knowing where your next shower or bathroom would be. Camping was easy because you had enough to drink the night before and enough noise in the morning from those who didn't. Shut up and dance with me, get pumped up and ride with me, let's get going and see what's next. Sometimes I did, sometimes I knew exactly. But sometimes I didn't know quite how good I had it.

Not until those nights were gone.

I believe I miss them because of the new weariness I feel. It's not from deafening sets of dance music or endless bottles of whatever's cheapest, though. It's from waking at the ass-crack of dawn to greet the day in solitude before the rest of the household bustles with noise. It's from creating a modicum of cleanliness and an appearance of culinary know how. It's from being torn from one task to assist a little person with the potty which turns into a monsoon of water expelled about the sink which turns into "how have all the towels disappeared?!" which turns to a change of clothes and a forgotten diaper on the mantle and a lunch of butter on bread with sour gummy worms for reward for having used the potty three hours ago (but is only recalled on a sudden).

And yet here I am with my chaos and ease, my distance and directness, my cuppa Cappy and my dwindling habit of smoking in the garage if it's pre-6am or post beer-thirty, somehow wanting more.

More than the thrill of summer nights spent on two wheels. Never quite sure where I might end up or arrive. More than the thrill of love on a thin little ledge, promising me the brilliance of staleness slayed for a string of moments we had no control over but threatening me, too, with a lack of security, promise, tomorrow.

(Now how does THAT sum up the whole of what was?! Most entirely, I believe.)

More than the crazy that got me here. More than the cause and effect that made me who I am. More than retelling of memories from my days of pure independence, which were burned away in a manner which I cannot say was for the best but perhaps was in a way I don't like to entirely lay credence to. That clean slate doesn't do wonders for me, I know, for who would believe the risks I took, the nights I broke into, the lives I changed and the lives that changed me, the miles I put onto a set of wheels intended for only the curves in the road but equated to so much more? So much more. But that story's cut short.

Who would believe now that I was that girl unless they were there to see?

And so I hold on for that. For the knowledge they hold, for the memories I can recount, for the picture proof I once had but has since been robbed. Only us, only we, only those few moments you were so privy to. I wish I could bottle it up for my records, my daughter, my history. I wish I could give it out like a pamphlet, letting you know the places I've been, the things i have seen, the dreams I dreamed so heavily that they visit me still before I wake up to this reality. Because that's how I got here, you see. That's still relevant. That's still true. That's still me somewhere. Deep down.

Though it brought me to my knees, though it exceeded the pain of anything purely physical I have known, though it drove me into an uncherished moment of desperation and depravity, I wouldn't change it for the world. Oh, the places I've seen and the people I've known.

The spontaneity and the spoils! The constant struggle to be me and only me and invite others in for the ride (for the long and short ride) that was and will forever be marked in the mud and grit, the air and the wind and whirl of days, the splendor of few and the cherished hearts of at least me.

And that's what makes the present all the more interesting. Because who would have thought I would be HERE. Sleeping next to the only human being who cannot imagine a moment away from her mother, even in sleep, just because she loves me that much.

That's how much I love her, too.

And that's why I want more.

For all the crazy and hectic and selfless moments a child can create, I want more, for I have more love to give. More time and love and patience and impatience to impart. Work will always find me willing and ready and let's get this going but a family is a one time deal and I'm not getting any younger.

I am not the best Mom. I am not the best cook. I am not the perfection I envisioned in the brevity I held as a mother-to-be. But I know I am more than my own mother (and less all the same). I am flawed and dysfunctional and loving and scared and going through things I cannot explain to ONE single person alive or dead but I am ready. Ready to let go of what I thought I was going to be and ready to accept who I have become.

I am the provider, the nurturer, the giver, the teacher, the lover, the light, the nudge in the morning, the nod at night, the holder of recipes, the mad little chef, the maid, the driver, the inconsistent mom hoping to be consistent and fair but laying down the law just the same.

I am me.

And no matter how much I complain or cry, wonder or fold, believe or question or fall or shine; I am your mother. And I want to me a mother again. To frightfully and wonderfully make another as I've made you because you are that much of an inspiration and wonder to me that I cannot imagine stopping there. Nothing in my life has topped this. Motherhood. Mommy being. Maid, cook and driver.

My dear little girl, you are the light, the love, the future, the high, the low the amazing little being that I never thought I could know. You have taught me more in one little brush with death, than any disaster or dream, memory or photo could ever proclaim.

I gave life. I sustain life. I love life. I love you.

Past or present. Meant to be or a stumble in the "plan," you are here and you are wonderful, my little love. So wherever you get to or wherever you go, just please remember that. Nothing trumps true love. Whatever you have lost, whatever pain you endure, whatever hardships you can recount, you have been made out of love stronger than the summer wind coming into its own. You will always be given everything that we have and everything we can hope for and all of this will always be unconditional.

I certainly didn't know it back then but I was being taught a big lesson about love, family and sacrifice and I don't know now a father and mother who have not made the ultimate sacrifice in hoping to be the best mom, the best dad, the best family (and for that, I am the most lucky of all). I saw a lot of things pre-mom, pre-family and pre-selflessness to know that no matter the strength, the bond in the MOM and the DAD, the little person created from true love reigns supreme over all. And that says a lot about the people I have been so lucky to know. I draw from that now because, looking back, it was truly stronger than any hold I had over any life, love, man I have ever known.

And can you believe it, I knew and know such wonderful men!

For all their faults they only loved most of all their little girls and little boys for that is truly what makes the world go round.

And here we go.


Written at 5:49 p.m.