Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Ode to Mother's Day: Blog: It's not all about bitching; sometimes it's about love.

I don’t want to miss a thing. What will happen if I miss one breath, one blink, one smirk, one tear—what will it look like when she takes that first step? Will she know it? Will she be proud of herself? Will she feel afraid or will she feel triumphant? Maybe both, a little afraid and then the rush of “I did it! Holy shit, I am walking!”

Can your heart explode from loving so much? You know that feeling in your chest when you see something amazing and touching and you almost cry (welling up, tight and hot)? I feel that way every single flipping day. That is the love of being a parent. If anything ever happened to my daughter, my heart would die (black, frozen, bottom-of-the-ocean, dead.) The love that she inspires in me is the real thing—genuine, unembarrassed, unconditional love—it’s fierce and bright and hot and free; it floods out of me, uncorked. She is the moon and the sun. She inspires poetry and music and dancing and all things tender and sappy and divine. I am in love—maybe for the first time.

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