I live thousands of lives inside my head. I carry on conversations with people from this world and from another Universe, people who are still here, people who are gone in one way or another, people who exist but have never heard of me, people who are completely made up from the star dust that covers my furniture. I talk to them about my life, my dreams, my fears, my hopes, my failures, my pains, my regrets, my aspirations. I tell them all the witty one-liners I could not think of when I stood there with a polite smile plastered on my face and a nervous giggle that was supposed to save me from the tongue of bitterness. They admire me and they laugh and they nod in agreement and their eyes sparkle in enlightenment and I don't really care that it could very well be oh-so-pathetic because I can do whatever the hell I want inside my head.
They ask me:
“What is the most important lesson you have learned as a parent?”
and I say:
“That it's the best thing and the worst thing that can ever happen to you.”
And they raise their eyebrows and ask:
and I stumble over my thoughts, closing my eyes, hoping they can feel the emotions, that they can see them forming in my heart and hear them exploding in my head, that they can taste them when they seep through my skin, and that they understand.
that nobody in the world can spark but the little devils with big innocent eyes that share my DNA, unleashing screams that bounce around my brain like an electric current, synapsis after synapsis, until everything is ash white, melted, burnt, exhausted.
love that punches me in my stomach so hard I double over, air knocked out of my lungs, eyes watering, knowing with every single molecule of my body that THIS very moment made my life worth it, come what may, the little angels that I am so lucky to share my DNA with.
I wake up in the middle of the night thinking: “What if this is the last happy moment of my life? What if everything goes awfully wrong the very next second, leaving nothing but
and did I just waste my last happy day fretting over spilled cereal and sand on the living room carpet and fear of not writing another paragraph?”
The little tiny body is sleeping next to me, her chest rising, her arms in a surrender position. I listen and grieve, grieve the losses that have not (yet) happened and then I force myself to stop
(Do I need to go check on him? Is he OK? Will I wake her if I go? Will I wake him?)
and I inhale the smell of her hair that is the most beautiful thing ever, sorry-I-am-not-sorry lilies and jasmine and roses and sweet-pea. So please please please don't make it stop. Not yet. Because I love everything about my life so much it hurts, even though I hate everything about the spilled cereal and the sand on the living room carpet and the fear of not writing another paragraph.
So I am going to shut this laptop and have another conversation in my head while I brush my teeth and then I will go to bed and hope that I can finally sleep through the night without interruptions, while wishing she starts crying so I can go pick her up, and if I get so lucky he will stumble over to our bed, half asleep, dragging his blankie, asking: “Mommy, can I sleep with you?” and I will spend the rest of the night crammed between squirming bodies, thinking about the next day when not even a gallon of coffee could make a difference, thinking that my parents are so right when they say I was born under the lucky star, wondering how far one can go before he runs out of good fortune, until I get kicked in the chin and burst out laughing, hoping not to (push my luck) wake them.