Why is it I had time and energy to write every week for a year and now I can barely manage to eke out a post every year? I don't know why that is, but I don't have that much to say even though a lot has happened and continues to happen. I guess it was the horror of the hurricane and having my first kid while evacuated in Houston and then my mom dying of cancer like all at once that provided the fodder for the blogs (and my therapist) so if I never post again because my life is too calm to have anything to say, well, then I am fine with that. But, surely I cannot be so dull that there is nothing worth posting about without life events that are so devastating and catastrophic that it takes the National fucking Guard to quell the chaos? Right?
Or maybe not. Maybe this is it and the well has run dry and now I have a completely pedestrian life that does not inspire creative quips and stories. Pack the lunches, make the breakfast, drink coffee, go to work, stop here and there for various things - funerals, vacations, hysterectomy, and then climb back in the wheel and keep running, at not quite a leisurely pace, but certainly not the clip of my youth. Ah, my youth, how I both miss it and smile like an asylum patient that most of it is behind me. Sure, I miss breasts that defied gravity and hair that was naturally the color of coal, but oh the pain, the pain of being so fucking stupid and so unbearably insecure. I will happily keep my gravity-beaten body to feel the warmth of self acceptance that I never felt in my youth. Had I one inkling back then that everyone felt as stupid as me, I would have, well, probably not lived to tell the tale so perhaps it is best that the whole thing came crashing down when I was 22 and I quit the rocky road of self-destruction then. Well, at least the drinking part of the self-destruction. The rest of the package has slowly eased up and gone away over time. It really does heal all wounds.
And now I watch my son, in his 6 year old sweet boy mind, deal with life. And I do my best not to put my shit on him, not to feel the pain of my shy and awkward youth in his tiny life. But, I fail, every day. And that is ok. I love him more than anyone has ever loved a son and that is enough. It has to be, but it is the only constant, the only one sure thing. The rest is, as we say in the Big Easy, lagniappe. It is tenable and definitely not the northern star that is my love. It can all go away with one fell swoop, but my unconditional and undying love will be the bedrock upon which the rest is built.