Fly, Babies. Spread Your Wings And Fly.

I am so agitato today. Agitato is a word that Kinky Friedman uses in his books. Mr. Moon and I use it a lot, especially to describe when we've had too much coffee.

I am agitato today, not because of too much coffee, but because Jessie is going off to Jamaica where I can't protect her. I am agitato because Lily is pregnant and I can't protect her on that journey. I am agitato because May is in pain and because there is so much she has to bear and I can't make it all better. I am agitato because Hank, although very much a grown-up man will face things in his life that I can't imagine and I can't help him with.

I am agitato because I am me, and I can't help but want to control everything, while at the same time, knowing I can't even control what goes on inside me.

And all of this agitation makes me think that if I don't finish cleaning my house and make a good, healthy supper for my husband that the world will fall apart. That I will have failed, failed, failed. I know I am displacing my agitation. I know I am taking things I can't control and trying to force control on something I can. My house. My dinner.

I bought two candles at the Winn Dixie the other day. One a Virgin of Guadalupe candle and one a plain red one. I wish I had bought a white one to burn for clarity, for soothing. I don't pray, I don't believe, but I light candles to make wishes visible.

I drain the pickles. I boil water and pour it over them in the crock. Tomorrow I will make the pickling solution- the vinegar, so much sugar, spices. The real magic will begin. I mop the floors, I dust the furniture, I oil my grandfather's rocking chair. I pot two plants to put on a porch.

I touch totems- my grandfather's rocking chair, the crock I make my pickles in, my skillets, my pictures, my computer, the dirt.

When Hank and May were little and they had to go (GOT to go!) to their father's every Monday and Tuesday nights, I had to learn to separate from them by pretending I did not have children two days a week. It was the only way. Otherwise I would have lost my mind.
Guess what? It didn't work. I did lose my mind.
I still do that- when they leave to go off, whether for a week or a month or time I don't know the number of minutes, hours, days, months, years in, I lose my shit for a time. I think, "I can't bear this," and then I do.

But something inside of me goes a little crazy.
I clean. I make supper. I cry. I berate myself for such foolishness.

Why did I give them wings if I didn't want them to fly?

I want them to fly. All of my children. I want them to fly as high and as far as they can go. I know I can't protect them forever. I know that. I even know they can protect themselves because they are so strong, so amazing, so smart. I know that.

But that part of me that reached for them at the moment of their birth doesn't know it. That part of me that drew them to my breast doesn't know it. That part of me that watched them as they slept to make sure they were breathing doesn't know it.

Is this normal?

It is for me. Obviously, it is for me.