|pretty spot in my father's gardens last year|
No, really, I'm exhausted, but thrilled that you are here.
Pretty and promising, in all your budding glory.
Today, a mist hangs in the balmy air, making me think that ee cummings still said it best, describing the world in spring as Mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
Mine started yesterday following a near all-nighter: One hot-tamale kid, whose birthday it just happened to have been, in bed next to me, burning up and shivering. All. Night. Long.
How can a mother possibly sleep with a hot-tamale, birthday kid?
So, I lay awake, sorry he was feverish, but suddenly realizing I was actually reveling in the quiet exhaustion of being a mom. Feeling his head, his hot belly, stumbling to the kitchen to get water and Advil. Wrapping arms around his sweet, shivery body. Being vigilant while he slept, knowing I was protecting him.
I mean, how long do I have left to do this, to tend to a sick child who crawls into bed next to me for comfort?
He just turned 14. That's only, uh, a handful of days. I'm glad I can't actually do the math in my head.
Don't even get me started on how fast it goes.
So, the kid's back to school, and it's taken me a whole 24-hour cycle to catch up.
Meanwhile, all around me, early blooms are up, bobbing their cheerful, hopeful, brightly-colored heads. Which is nice, since I'm still waiting on a bunch of shit that's otherwise making me feel like I'm wading through seasons of dark, thick molasses.
But it's all good. Spring has sprung and the world is mud-luscious all around.
p.s. Here's the full ee cummings poem if you're craving it. :)
By E. E. Cummings 1894–1962
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
... whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
when the world is puddle-wonderful
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and