Being Loved

Being loved.

I could just leave that there. It says, yes, I am, wholly, fully, and without question, yes.

I could write it again

and maybe again.

Being loved.

Who wouldn’t want just a taste? Who wouldn’t?

And when I reach so deep where I know my feet will tread

wildly at all the warmth around me

how could I ever stop?

How could I not swim the length for a child

who loves me so much

so exquisitely

so entirely

that she would never

never even dream

of letting me poop alone.

That is love

the kind that never lets go for a second

the kind that cries after one breath

without me, and I

count the days till the love could fade

just a little, just enough

to have five feet of space

five minutes of silence

where I can rest alone

in my own sacred void.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

If you have children, you know what this is like. If you don’t have children, you might have no idea how wonderful it is just to be able to close a bathroom door and know it will stay closed. That’s right, I don’t lock it. I let my kids come in, because usually, that’s so much safer than whatever else they might be doing when they realize you are having special time, special grown-up time that they are not invited to. I love my kids. I love that they love me. There is nothing in the world that can replace that feeling; the feeling of being called mama and the myriad kisses that come along with the title. It’s a magical role. Still, I do find myself counting the years every so often and wondering, trying to remember, what it might be like to be able to shower and use the toilet without any interruption, without even the sound of mischief echoing from the next room. When that day happens, I wonder if I will appreciate it or if I will long to be followed just one more time by little, giggly munchkins.

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