Baby, Love and Going Home

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Baby, Love and Going Home

unsuspecting child. I imagine being so overprotective I raise a kid who will still need my boob to go to bed while she is a senior in college. Or one who will be so sick of my mothering that she doesn't call on my birthday or Christmas, which happens to be the same day of the year. I have flashes of my future self weeping in some old age home telling all the other old ladies how much of a firebrand I was, reeking of urine and smelling like regret.

Love has always been hard, if not impossible for me. At first, the way I love appears tsunami and scares, flatters, and finally consumes everyone it touches. Then it quietly retreats, like a turtle with its arms and legs pulled into an impenetrable shell. Sustained vulnerability is not my way. I choose always to love, but in stints. And when it gets too much I have to pull away, just so I can survive should you decide to be the one to exit first. But something tells me that loving this child is already different. I do not have the option to retreat. I wouldn't know how to do that, I think.

And so far this child has demanded everything from me. So sick have I been that I am still a bit stunned by the experience. I keep waiting to wake up from it. I can hardly work. Hence I am broke (never mind that being broke triggers all those years I was the beggar child on everyone's charity list). I am on bed rest, so no gadding about, no trips to Jamaica when I please, no exotic runs to South Africa, or New Zealand. Even a trip to New Jersey is a mammoth challenge, both financially and physically.

I am always in bed. That's it. Lying on either side of my body, because I cannot lie on my back or stomach, wondering if pregnant women get bedsores. I could Google it, but I have put myself of restricted google privileges. Knowing too much can be as bad as knowing too little when consulting with Dr. Internet. I cannot watch movies; my ability to concentrate is severely compromised, so I am left to wander through the inane and often sexist world of sitcoms.

I keep track of the Occupy Wall Street Protesters. They inspire me, but I'm still not sure what they are

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ms_daresay's picture


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KilledMyHeartWifLys's picture

I <3 this

I <3 this