Posted on Thursday, June 30, 2011
in Family, Rantings
I can’t pause for long, there’s a young man in the kitchen that wants to dance with me. I’ve been dancing with him for two hours now, he likes a slow waltz to the beat of his heartbeat, he keeps his hands on my shoulders and I firmly grasping his buttocks. An odd jig now and then might take his fancy in a frisky moment, but for the most it’s a slow dance he wants.
All I want is to turn my hand to whiskey and blog, but he doesn’t understand. He shouts with violent gestures and pounds the air with his fists and I watch the face I love so much boil in its furious redness and I know he doesn’t really mean any of it, he just wants to dance and there’s nothing bad about that.
Even now, as I sit and type, he sings and talks and chatters and pleads with me to dance with him again. He talks and talks, and shouts and yawns and still he won’t go to sleep, this man of mine.
And then I give him the bottle. His third of the night, if you don’t mind. He drinks it down, and talks himself to sleep in the corner and I daren’t move him, lest he start shouting at me again. The abuse I get from him is heavy, but it underweighs the good parts, his constant want to entertain me is flattering and I love his ways of making me laugh and I love his love and the way he makes me feel real and I know I could never leave him.
This could be said for any man, many men. They’re all the same.
Mine is one year old. I’ve never had the opportunity to raise a man before, but it’s comforting to know that they’re born like this, that they can’t be changed. It’s up to us as mothers, as sisters, as girlfriends and wives to find a way through it, to as close as what could be described as harmony as possible,
even if it does mean hitting the bottle.