Wednesday, August 22, 2007
I have no sense of time. It's genetic. It's not a malfunction. It's something that's quite festive actually ... until it matters. It mattered tonight when I was talking to my mother and we were dishing about the kid.
The abridged version is that even though I couldn't find his birth certificate (PS: you can bet your sweet ass, I will find it. I am one determined dame), I found evidence that he was born in 97', which means he was 10, not 7.
I had 10-years with my kid. 10 beautiful, perfect years. It's never enough time, ever. I would've loved more time. It'll never be enough time. I'd give up everything I have right now for more time with him.
Knowing that he had 10-years matters to me. Knowing that we had 10-years matters to me. It gives me a sense of peace and relief. My son lived 10 glorious uninterrupted years on this planet and I have proof.
I found his baby pictures. The day he was born. When he was 3 weeks old, 4 months, a year, 2 years and all the way up to the present. There was one picture that meant the world to me and I FOUND IT, it's the picture of when he separated himself from his brothers and sisters at just 3 weeks old. He sat across from them, observing. I was so taken with his moxie. I thought, look at the balls on this kid. That's my kid.
I will sleep with the angels tonight. I won't have nightmares. I have some peace and it matters.