My Gift Is My Song

Five years ago right now, I was filling out paperwork to get my baby lined up for school in the fall, and seeing the light at the end of the 'I had kids before I was done being one' tunnel. I was going to stop cocktail waitressing. I was finally scheduling my tubal and called the reproductive chapter in my life closed. I was going to go back to school and get my degree in handwriting analysis for the serial killer profiler department of the FBI math education. I had happily set me aside with the birth of my first son, and eagerly added to that postponement with my second, but it was time for me to start figuring out who the hell I was. My life was beginning in 2005 and the future was so bright, I had to wear shades.

I never did go to university. I never got the tubal. I never started on that version of me that I'd placed so much of my hopes and dreams into creating. What I did was start a blog and then get knocked up. Maybe not in that order; we're not sure. The blog came on January 19th, 2005 and the plus on the stick came on January 29th. Then I threw my guts up for 4 months in a way that, if I told you about, you'd be instantly struck with fear-induced infertility, and all the while I counted out the months and the days and the minutes until I'd again be in the position I, quite literally, fucked myself out of, the one where all my kids were in school and moving on with themselves, and I would be finally be afforded the time and opportunity to do the same.

When you're 29, five years seems like a light-age. It's unforgivably long. It's unfathomable that someday you'll be pushing 35 and this baby you didn't know you'd have would come into your life, shake your foundation to the very core, and then abandon you one day for the sweet smiles and soft hands of some high school students studying to be early childhood educators. When you're 34, however, that shit runs up behind you and smacks you in the head when you're not looking, and you hand them $70 a month to make it happen.

The best part is that you have five years from when you think you know everything until you realize that you just don't know jack shit and everything you thought you knew was bollocks.

I don't want to be a serial killer profiler anymore, at least not professionally. I don't want to analyze anything deeper than the existential implications of the Teletubbies. What I do want to do is write. I want to write every little thing down that no one ever told me and hand it to my daughter one day. I want this pen to be mightier than every sword that ever pierced the women in my family. And I never would have known that if I didn't start a blog five years ago, and I didn't start a daughter, too. This blog is her song, and the book it's born is her song, too, because she is my song.

And today, I set her free. Today, that day I counted down to all those years ago happened. She went to school. She loved school. And now, my job here is done. I am afforded the time I thought mattered to me all those years ago, that I know now doesn't at all, but at least this time I know exactly where I go from here.

First Day Of School