The seagulls have a different caw in New York than they do in East Anglia or on the Gulf Coast. I think back when we'd fly Stateside from Athens and sitting on various Greek beaches. I think the gulls had different caws there, too. I sit on the boardwalk at Luna Park in Coney Island, breathing in the salty, thunder-soaked air. It is a perfect grey day and I'm watching a voluptouos woman dance in the surf, her kaftan swirling behind her joyfully. I'm breathing in deeply, trying to quell additionally nausea from the rides and roller coasters and a questionable turkey burger.
The kidlets arrived Wednesday night with the co-parent. It is a sign of the progress we have made, I suppose, that there is capacity for us to be there for one another. He makes a joke about shedding husbands and finding spines when I tell him what my father said, about how I have changed so much this last years, he can scarcely speak to me. I laugh and point out that we've gained a richer friendship than anything we ever had romantically. But yes, shedding a man who puts his own desires before your basic human needs, and an entire world opens up, full of love and possibility and has done wonders for my figure. That a year ago, I could not have trusted him with the children for 9 days whilst I navigate through bureaucracy and hospital corridors doesn't go amiss.
I try not to think about Dayton, try to curb the urge to cluck and worry these two days. If there is an emergency, someone will phone. This time, I am not the only I've accomplished a great deal in a short space of time and it is a testament to parentage that I am able to hit the ground running thusly. I wish I didn't know what I was capable of, sometimes. I wish I didn't have reserves to pull from.
I dream-read something last night, a snippet from Plath's journals, from my high school reading. 'I was meant to make for a man, to give to him daily from this colossal reservoir.' And I remember thinking at 16, at 19 that sounded so romantic, to be compelled to give thusly. Of course, I also thought Mr Rochester was my ideal kind of man or Rick in 'Casablanca.' Now? Sasha, any day of the week. 'I love you Yvonne, but Rick? He pays me.' The guy who walks Yvonne home at the end of an evening, makes sure she gets in safe? That's where you want to be. But my daddy issues run deep, as does the conditioning and SSG Howse knows it, knows what buttons to push and bait to lay in the trap.
Back in Dayton, we find my dad's teeth and I help throw a depressing birthday for my 6 year old nephew. The two boys spark off one another and my nerves jangle. I don't see a happy world of me raising two autistic boys; I delete the searches about how to adopt children and bring them to the UK repeatedly, especially when I realize I sound like my mother with the nagging and threatening. This isn't how I want to parent, or Aunty. As we leave Frontenac, I spy one of my old tennis rackets and relief filters through me. It's the little things, like friends who step in for family when they can't or won't, a found tennis racket, storefront icing, that carry you through. And this isn't even as bad as it could be.
Comments
Post a Comment