I spent mere moments yesterday, in between ordering The Daver to shave my legs and to feed me grapes while fanning me with a ficus branch (read: shoving my gaping maw with cupcakes and reading trashy books while getting my arms gnawed on my a certain baby of mine), working on the next installment of Proof That Aunt Becky Has Feelings, and I was going to put it up today. It’s done, after all, and it’s just sitting there in my draft folder, edited and reedited (a rarity, I’m sure. You may want to mark on a calendar that I wrote a post AND EDITED IT this one time).
But I’m leaving it there, all alone in my drafts, for now. Not because it’s not good or not powerful, but because I don’t feel like being depressing today. The story ends happily, we all know this–although we’re not sure how neurologically Amelia will be affected yet; nor do we care–and I’ve told you the worst of what happened. I’ll probably throw it up tomorrow or the next day, then I’ll make a separate page or something to put the story together, because you know what? I gain nothing by keeping silent. My dignity (for once) is not on the line here.
No, today I wanted to something even more rare than talking about being afraid and scared and all that good boo-yang, today I wanted to publicly tell The Internet how much my life fracking rules.
See, I know it’s not in vogue to shriek it from the rafters that I’m the luckiest bitch I know. I should, instead, complain about summer vacation and how it’s crimping my Big Pimpin’ lifestyle, or maybe whine about Alex’s sleep schedule and that Amelia would kind of like it if I surgically attached her somehow to my body. Or maybe I could bitch about how Daver can’t seem to manage putting his dirty dishes INTO the dishwasher, instead, he assumes the magical fairies will sprinkle their sparkly dust around and the plates will magically float into the dishwasher.
But yesterday, as I sat with my big butt wearing a groove into my couch cushions, my daughter perched on my lap swaddled like a caterpillar in her pink camo swaddler, intently watching her brothers, who were chasing each other about the house, screaming ebulliently and (no joke) throwing these large beach balls at each other. It was some sort of game they were playing, Amelia wriggled this way and that, expressing her joy through her pumping extremities and the occasional squawk of pure ecstasy (no, not The Good Drug. No illegal drugs until she’s AT LEAST 12)(this is a joke)(put down the phone to DCFS, people).
The screams bore into my head like a drill bit, and although listening to them was making my headache so bad that my eyes began to water, I was so happy. This is my life. THIS. All this: the chaos, the dog pee on the (white. WHITE!) carpet, the toys strewn about the floor, bruising the bottoms of my feet. The pure joy that only kids can express so easily. The messiness, the imperfections, the sleeplessness and the bliss. All of it. It’s mine.
Never in a million billion years the place I ever saw myself. Not even close to the swinging swinger lifestyle, dripping with diamonds and distain, sex on the kitchen table and perfectly arranged coffee table books. Shit, I can’t even go to the store on a whim right now, let alone jet off to France for the weekend or even promise to make it to a local party.
But it doesn’t matter. I don’t care. It’s not where I’d ever have guessed I’d be, and Aunt Becky circa 1998 would have rolled her eyes dramatically and threatened to run off with the Peace Corp if you’d told her where she’d end up. But, in the immortal words of The Bearded God Garcia, “Once in awhile you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right.”
Because this is exactly where I belong: raising kids, writing a crappy blog and a couple of books, making good friends and the requisite handful of enemies. And it’s why I might maybe have gotten a bit misty-eyed when I saw all your birthday wishes here, on Twitter and on Facebook (we should be BFF! Your updates are hysterical on there). Maybe. Or maybe it’s just allergies.
And then I see this brilliance one of my friends put together, after I tell Twitter (jokingly) that I’m going to make and wear shirts that say “I’m Friends With Aunt Becky.” Then my OTHER friend tells me she’s going to make a shirt that says “Aunt Becky is my Gnomie,” and my face would be on a gnome’s body. And then I full on cried, I was laughing so hard.
And then maybe I said, “I love you man, to The Internet” and told them to keep this talk of feelings and shit between us.