I read something the other day, something about the danger of blogging while smitten with one's children, of seeming to trumpet them as it were, and I thought that maybe it could sometimes seem to verge on that here, because when I think of my children I do tend to inflate and just about explode with happiness, and sometimes I don't contain it very well.
I have nothing to say in defense of myself except that it is important for me to stay connected to my happy, because this is not an automatic state for me. Most of my life, I have been swimming under a sea of lonely and odd, as if a pane of thick glass stood between me and other people, and I could see out but they couldn't see in, couldn't see me, and never mind that I'm garbling my metaphors.
The truth is nothing in life has made me as happy as this little family we have created, the charge of parenting these two souls who screwed up their courage and came to me, this obsessive overbearing want-to-know-everything mother I am, who never learned how to leave well enough alone, and especially not how to leave them well enough alone.
So this is where I am now. I am trying to embrace the fact that my children's lives are not about me, even if mine often feels as if it's all about them. I am trying to make peace with the fact that they have grown up and belong to the world at large now, and I will never again know everything, and sometimes I will know nothing, and that is just the way of it.