A Post Induced by Too Much Booker's (Single Barrel Bourbon), Too Many Cigarettes, Etc.

CD: This is the post that I’ve been thinking about writing and posting for a while now. A little different from the others. A lot disorganized, and highly unedited. Maybe it’ll get posted, maybe it won’t. Maybe it’s part of a letter to Otis. Maybe I’m a little too bourbon-ified.

This is hard.

This is not a vacation.

In the best of marriages, no one expects to spend 24-7 with her husband. It’s certainly making me remember how much I love David, but I face another four? five?, six? weeks with some trepidation.

I’m crying too much. I have no idea why. David says, “I’m allowed to be emotional”,… but why exactly am I crying?

I hate the loss of control.

David listens to music. And, I gotta say, the evolving welcome to the world track that we’ve been listening to – lots of Loudon, some Bruce, some Neil Young, whatever – is comforting, but not really my thing. And there’s only so much comfort you can take from the distraction the political and historical tomes I’ve brought provide.

I guess I’m writing to force myself into that analytical, calm format that is either me or the way I present myself to the world.

I hate feeling like I’m a 20-year old with a new boyfriend again, hating when it feels like he’s flirting with his old girlfriend… maybe his current girlfriend?... when the caregiver comes to get him and calls him “Rachman,” to which he does not respond (good or bad?), pinching his little thigh until he responds, while he looks back at us, “Why are they going?”

I hate not being in control. (DJ-there’s a newsflash-me too, as our good friend Ralph, has pointed out about me, and it applies you too, I always have to be right.)

And, I hate that so much revolves around whether our friends and family – that is, the life in which we have become so comfortable – are reading and responding to what we’ve written. Because writing has gotten so important. And we (I?) miss the familiarity so much.

This is so not a vacation.

Also I (we) miss Bruno. (DJ-I dream about Bruno)

Actually, writing helps a lot. The act of re-reading and rewriting -- OK, editing -- is calming.

I know how much I love my husband because he is about to/has just read this.

DJ: I light her cigarette, then mine and start to type. No, this is not a vacation, this is a process, this is how we get, for us, from three to four. It costs, it costs money, more than money, it costs time, time away from our jobs, our families, our dog, our friends, our comforts and vices. It costs dealing with bullshit about socks and watching them put OUR son in flannel PJ’s when it’s 85 degrees and keeping your mouth shut because he’s not YOUR son yet MF, from people we’re smarter than on their best day (And yes we’ve been lucky enough to be born American, white and upper middle class and they’re none of the above.) And yet, when that barely formed, drooling little creature tucks his head into my neck with that acne from his face not being wiped and cradle cap that these, over-worked people can’t keep up with, (but these MF’s are looking askance at the fat, prosperous gringos who are taking their sweet little Rachman away, the future of their nation), well FUCK IT, we’ll eat their shit for the next six weeks or whatever it fucking takes, and yes, I’ll quit smoking and yes, CD will wear socks, and jump through the rest of the fucking hoops, because that moment when that little boy nuzzles your neck and falls asleep in your arms makes ALL the bullshit, pain, fear and self-doubt look like small beer indeed.