I tried to buy a paper tonight. Stem cell breakthrough – all over the press.
But Bangladesh wins, folks. 3,100 dead. That’s two thousand more people than I know. My heart hurts.
We’re always still people. They’re still people. I want to wrap my arms around them and tell them — really — that I’m glad it was them and not me. Not my children. I offer my home to them – as long as my kids aren’t there.
You and yours are welcome to my home; just don’t ever make me fear tomorrow the way you do.
I suck. I know it. Spoiled brat. I’m a complete wuss these days. I was much more feisty before I loved children.
But I’m so glad my boys are home and in their beds, hating me because I slacked on the recent fundraiser, so they’ll never get enough points to win those goofball magnets. The whatever they were gonna win. Youngest shouted at me tonight that “It’s always your fault, Mom!’.
Fine. My fault. Perfectly happy to take the heat, as long as my boys are strong and well. My fault. I didn’t buy the wrapping paper. I didn’t give you a YouTube account. BAD MOM – you can hate me all you want. No cyclones. No wildfires. No scary men breaking into my home like they did to Kathy, to Ruby – I’ll never get over that.
No 3100 dead neighbors. No wrecked homes – no wrecked lives.
Always Mom’s fault, because the big choices always go to Mom. That’s why y’all get to keep blaming us, so many years later. Big choices are Mom’s – with Dad right behind, wearing the white hat. But we all remember Kathy opened the door – what is her husband’s name? He was a successful musician. Popular around here. Well liked.
I think it was Bryan. I don’t remember.
Ruby and Stella – we will never forget their faces.
Cruel as I may be, Mom is the one who holds, who hangs on. Mom is Kathy Harvey (God rest you, girl.). Mom is the one who stays, and tries, and holds.
I think of these things when my children scream at me and tell me I’m bad. Dad bought him the bow-and-arrow; Mom made him finish his homework before we went to Grandmas’.
I repair my heart by knowing that one day, they’ll see it. My choices. Maybe they’ll see that I made the best choice. Maybe they’ll just blame me.
But at least that gives them someone else to blame.