Listening to: Brian Wilson, Smile
Nothing about blogs, now, shhhhh, not a word. No more self-indulgence, no mention of my beaming with good fortune nor nary a word about my hacking cough. Nix that sh-tuff.
Tonight I'm looking at an empty room where my girls would be sleeping. Beds empty where angels normally slumber, where I would stand and brush my fingers gently on cheeks and brows, watching them breathe, pulling a blanket over them and wishing them sweet dreams. Tonight there's a clean room, a room that would normally hold disarray, dolls and doll clothes scattered amongst crayons and cars and plastic dinosaurs and books about kitties. In the corner a blue light would glow, a shield against the dark things that creep when daddy sleeps. The room is tidy and empty; so is my heart.
By about this time Zeke would wake up, crying a little, "I want my baw-toe," or just a rock in my retro day-glo orange chair. It would be here where I would walk away from this, blogging, attend to him, out of myself and my writing, indulge him, another love, my kids all get their own love.
I firmly believe there are many different kinds of love. "Love" is a big word for a big emotion and it's difficult for me to confine it to a narrow definition. I love my children and I love cold fried chicken on a hot summer's day. They're two different types of love and neither diminishes the extent of the other. Obviously one is more important than the other, I wouldn't sacrifice my life for cold fried chicken; still, I might kill for it some day in July.
For awhile, I had a profile on a single parent's dating site. It took me about a year after my marriage tanked to feel comfortable with putting myself on the market. Obviously, mistakes had been made and I didn't want to repeat them. With the internet I figured I could read someone, start the search from the inside out, we could start our long and involved conversation well before our first candlelit dinner.
Many of the women on those sites say "my children come first and you must know that" and although I knew that, I figured that's not someone I wanted to get to know. Yes, I could appreciate the sentiment but in the search for a true partnership, those were not the words I would be looking for.
What I'm looking for? Passion. Damn shake the plaster off the walls grab some in the bushes or in the backseat of the car in the airport parking lot teeth whistling in the wind with screaming Stratocaster feedback fearless, unashamed passion. Surprises in pockets, little letters, panties, flowers, lyrics, a chocolate kiss specifying where the next kiss will be. The pilot light never goes out when both parties have a torch.
Someone never far from my mind such that, when I might look at a drop-dead gorgeous woman I would think, "Oh yes, nice, very nice, mmmmmmm... but it's not HER."
Someone with whom I would find a mutual, endless fascination. Someone who gives me a "Wow, I never knew that," at least once a day, a lab partner for life. Someone who says, "Let me read you this," and moves me - sometimes. When it doesn't, we argue, parry a little, jibe, and then fall back, fall back in love, again, again, again and again and again and again. A life of discovery and falling in love.
The fountain is with her and me. Overflowing, more abundant with every passing minute, more than enough to go around, to share, manna for all takers. With that kind of abundance, the kids will be taken care of, more than satisfied, sated. They, in turn, will also have it to give, abundantly, freely, without condition or judgement or even a second thought, here it is, it's beyond belief but here it is, take some, better to give than receive.
That kind of love, that immensity, it evolves, it finds places to thrive in and explodes, exponential, beyond comprehension or quantification, capcious and infinite in potential. Don't worry about the kids, they're not just provided for, they're digging it. So let's get busy, baby.
My kids know my love. It is intense and concerned and not the love of my future partner. And my kids know that they will not be neglected by my love for HER. The late night visits to look, to touch, to wonder, to hope, to turn down the music and the blinds, well, none of that will stop. The kids are alright.