The test said I was pregnant. Undoubtedly. Indubitably.
Pregnant.
The shock of it all drove me to the vodka I brought home as
a souvenir from our recent cruise, and to the precipice of stress smoking. You
know, the kind of smoking where you can hear the inhale followed by a 30-second
whrhhhhhhh of an exhale that obliterates an entire
cigarette.
But then I remembered, no that can’t be a thing because this
little person inside of me will also be drinking whatever I drink and can’t
even roll down a window for air when I whrhhhhhhh.
That person arrived a day early. A couple days later, I wrapped her up to go home with us. All I could think was a WHOLE NEW PERSON IS COMING HOME TO LIVE WITH US FOREVER.
Then she
did this:
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| Oh precious little girl, we have NO idea what we're doing! |
I burst out in tears. I mean, I just wasn’t prepared and I knew it.
We brought her home anyway.
She was funny, smart (way smarter than me and I knew that
when she was three-years-old and called me on the carpet about her role in picking
up her toys) and that she was a deep thinker.
I was way, WAY out of my depth.
There was the time when she got her own bottle out of the fridge and I cried. Then there was the phase when she didn’t want to potty train and I cried. And then there was the phase that seemed to last a lifetime when she refused to use public toilets. I cried. A lot while earnestly praying that the Second Coming would lift me out of the eternal misery called public restrooms and into eternal mansions built just for me.
Then, I blinked.
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| The need for Artist's space is real. |
That’s when the email came: Attention Parents of the Class of
2021.
Yep. That’s me. She’s in that class and I’m that parent.
Senior pictures will be due by MM/DD/YYYY.
The letting go time is knocking at my door, and has been for
years.
Somehow, I guess I just didn’t hear it.
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