Its easier to write about the bad things I've decided. You need an outlet. A keyboard releases in clickity clackety keystrokes what you didn't say 10 times a day when someone asked you how you were.
But now. NOW! I'm so happy. And scared to even type it. When life is good, you don't write about it. The goodness is bigger and better than my words. I'll pierce it like a balloon and all the good will goosh out and ruin things.
The words that are coming faster, fasterfasterfasertefastfasfaRRRRRRRRRRRR out of Magnus. His laugh and the time I'm spending with him. I'm redefining what makes me happy. What luxurious is. Its not going out for meals. Or getting new clothes. Its having time to make good meals. Goood. Its snuggling up and time for morning kisses.
My life is boring to write about. Its about grocery store trips and reading lift-the-flap books 3 times in a row. Its just another boring life. On paper. But to live it. I chase Magnus around ooh, oohing and aahhh, ahhing. He says "monkey" the same as "mama." Cracks my shit up. He says mama and pounds his chest and cracks up. He runs at me so full force that he ends up headbutting me and crying the rush of his exuberance and love so fast and free. These moments fill all my cracks and spaces. They take up space that used to be filled with fears for other people's children. These moments feel infinite, but they're not. There will be a day, not all that far away, when I put him on a bus and send him to school.
I'm redefining luxury. This life. This good, good life. Its luxurious.
What an asshole.
1 day ago