Today I went to my cousin's basketball game at the Y. It was pretty intense 4 on 4 (actually 3/3 because the other team had a player missing) and afterward my uncle, who is also the coach, spent about 20 minutes giving my cousin tips on how to improve his game.
Little H was snuggled peacefully next to my chest. Often it occurs to me that I love him very intensely, that I'll nurture him and care for him, and that I will be a fantastic mother for him.... but I can never be his dad. I can never teach him the best stance for dribbling and shooting, how to properly hold a bat or the best way to run a football down the field. Even if he takes interest in music and theater and speech, my pep talks and tips will never mean as much to him as they would coming from a father. That father/son bond can't exist between us because I simply can't relate in that intimate way.
Part of this process is letting go of things I can't control. I just need to do my best, surround him with good role models and pray it's enough.
Well, here it is, November, and I haven't written a word since April. Not that it hasn't occurred to me. I was busy working and somewhat enjoying my "summer break" and then school started again and BAM, ice and snow everywhere. Luckily for the 12 people who read this blog, today I drank an extra large cup of caramel macchiato from the local gas station at four o clock in the afternoon, so I am ready to write. Besides the copious amount of caffeine I've consumed, the major inspiration for this post is actually something that has been rattling around in my head for sometime now. Maybe it's because I spend a lot of time sitting around feeling sorry for myself (hahahahaha! Time. See, it's a joke because I actually have no time ever. See: opening sentence) but mostly it's because it's pretty personal and I have a hard time bringing it up without feeling like a total Debbie Downer pity-party, complete with cheese and whine (not the good wine that I li...
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