Rotten Mussels
It occurred to me tonight after eating mussels that had been dormant in my fridge for too many days that this would not be a good time to die. It may seem a somewhat elementary thought to most, or absurd. Is one day better than another when it comes to dying? How much time do I spend assessing the timeliness of my own death? Too much apparently.... or maybe not enough.
The reason I do not want to die tonight is because I have been fighting with my 6 year old for weeks. I don't want to leave him like this. I forgot in the heat of my swirling frustrations to tell him that I love him anyway, even, to some degree because he rode his dirtbike in the road without permission, even because he went to Zack's house for an hour without telling anyone, even because he chased his father's car on bike across the busiest streets on our side of town one night in the almost dark.... he doesn't know yet that I am yelling at him because his power and confidence frighten me. He doesn't know that when I dreamed him into being that I wished him to be independent and carefree, confident and adventurous, smart and free thinking. But now that he is more than a wish, now that he is vulnerable and prone, living outside of my dreams, my body.... I feel helpless and afraid. And the more I attempt to shelter him, to hem him in the greater is his need to prove that he can do all of it all by himself.
I want to live each day... end each night with my children already knowing exactly what I would want them to hear in the moments after my death. Not because I am overly morbid or suicidal or selfish enough to want them to live in well behaved guilt but because I want them to live carefree and foolish knowing that their mother never wants them to be anything but who they are. That all of their mistakes and misteps are my treasured moments. Those are the things I snap tight inside my sterling locket. Remy's dangerous forays to the street behind our house are the very things that I take out and turn over and over in my hand in my solitary moments. I have spent so much time with them that they are worn smooth like beach glass, shimmering and familiar; a remnant of something that used to be sharp. I don't want Remy to lose his edge. His wild tendencies are the very things that will make him a self sufficient and interesting adult. He is tenacious and magnetic.... he is unrelenting and unrepentent. He is frustratingly perceptive. And he has an irresistable pirate accent. I wouldn't change him....ever. I must remeber to tell him this in the morning.... right after I remind him that he is only grounded for another 5,475 days!
The reason I do not want to die tonight is because I have been fighting with my 6 year old for weeks. I don't want to leave him like this. I forgot in the heat of my swirling frustrations to tell him that I love him anyway, even, to some degree because he rode his dirtbike in the road without permission, even because he went to Zack's house for an hour without telling anyone, even because he chased his father's car on bike across the busiest streets on our side of town one night in the almost dark.... he doesn't know yet that I am yelling at him because his power and confidence frighten me. He doesn't know that when I dreamed him into being that I wished him to be independent and carefree, confident and adventurous, smart and free thinking. But now that he is more than a wish, now that he is vulnerable and prone, living outside of my dreams, my body.... I feel helpless and afraid. And the more I attempt to shelter him, to hem him in the greater is his need to prove that he can do all of it all by himself.
I want to live each day... end each night with my children already knowing exactly what I would want them to hear in the moments after my death. Not because I am overly morbid or suicidal or selfish enough to want them to live in well behaved guilt but because I want them to live carefree and foolish knowing that their mother never wants them to be anything but who they are. That all of their mistakes and misteps are my treasured moments. Those are the things I snap tight inside my sterling locket. Remy's dangerous forays to the street behind our house are the very things that I take out and turn over and over in my hand in my solitary moments. I have spent so much time with them that they are worn smooth like beach glass, shimmering and familiar; a remnant of something that used to be sharp. I don't want Remy to lose his edge. His wild tendencies are the very things that will make him a self sufficient and interesting adult. He is tenacious and magnetic.... he is unrelenting and unrepentent. He is frustratingly perceptive. And he has an irresistable pirate accent. I wouldn't change him....ever. I must remeber to tell him this in the morning.... right after I remind him that he is only grounded for another 5,475 days!
posted by Emily at 9:06 PM
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