I was really looking forward to two nights ALONE. Sleeping completely through the night. Watching whatever I want on TV with no concerns about whose stupid basketball game A might want to watch.
But besides the fact that I am drinking a beer (a large Sapporo) on a school night, I am would rather be home.
My baby girl came down with the flu today. It isn’t that I relish the idea of sitting up all night watching a tiny puke-a-rama, but I know my girl would like me to be there. Poor thing.
Usually, I like to fly. Actually, I really like the huge sterile-ness of the airport, the people rushing off to vacations or business trips, the freedom to buy random crap in the gift store, just because I can. Somehow, though, motherhood has ruined it for me.
Now instead of watching the people and reading shiny new magazines, I keep thinking about plane crashes. Or rather, I keep thinking about what it would be like if something happened to me and my daughter had to grow up without a mother.
I am not scared of flying. And I am not really afraid of dying either (I know I have at least one friend on the other side waiting for me). As Mrs. Figby and I agree, A is not replaceable as a father or a husband. I am a little afraid when he goes away, too. But if something happened to him, at least I would still get to see Miss M to adulthood. Oh yes, I am a selfish bitch and I want to be there.
I am afraid something will happen to me and my daughter will grow up, she won’t remember me, and –worst of all– I won’t get to know a what kind of woman she will become. Masochist that I am, when that thought pops up, I take a minute to feel what it would be like. It doesn’t feel good, all those missed moments and lost memories. It makes my eyes well up with tears. Even more impressively, it makes want to run right home to an evening of puke-catching.
Then, I think about how that hurt is just a tiny bit like what my future adopted kid’s first mother might feel. A gaping chasm of grief that is so big it might just engulf every moment of every day, if she let it. And to top it all off, as if all that pain isn’t enough, I think of my future child(ren)’s loss of his/her/their first mama (a real person just like me) that will be real. You know, REAL pain, not the made-up kind that I imagine when I am trying to waste time in really boring seminars or while I am waiting for my plane.
Thinking of my kids — Miss M or the one(s) I haven’t even met yet– feeling that kind of loss, is just. too. much.
Oh yes, this trip has been a barrel of laughs. I want to go home.