It's like
that bed is calling my name
"There's no shame in going to sleep early,"
but there's a room full of kids back there and I'm pulling my hair trying to get them to feel the same.
So, I have a drink
and think too much
and get on to them over and over
and my daughter begins to cry to yours about her "Daddy."
"I wanted to give him a hug and a kiss!"
Those sobs are real and deep and I turned off the the TV because they wouldn't sleep and she wouldn't have had this moment if I'd just let them stay up watching Howl's Moving Castle for the second time in a row.
In about two hours, she's five years old... at least she knows his face. That's more than I got until twenty-eight.
And, I know that you say I'm a great mother. You tell me I'm good to her and her brother.. but when she was crying and asking for him, the whiskey speech kicked in and I told her I didn't know. Not where he is or what he was doing. "And these kids wouldn't be here if your dad was here, do you understand? I don't know why he hasn't talked to you. I don't care if you cry but you can't keep screaming and keeping everyone up."
Tough luck for that girl having me for a mom. It's not the worst she could hear by far... but a hug... maybe that's better for her heart.
But instead,
I'll let her talk to her four year old friend in the bed.
My head has no answers. My heart crowds out comfort with hurt.
There are books about this.
Psychologists
counselors offering advice.
I just have vice
and you to offer the soft kind of love I can't give.
I never knew the donor
that was my father
and the pain that incurred was hard to bear from the time that I knew two parents could be there...
And only time made it better and worse altogether.