Truly, Madly, Guiltily

Jeremiah kisses me goodbye every morning before he leaves for work. If he doesn't, I panic. I assume he's horribly mad at me and that he's definitely not coming home. The problem with this is that he's only been that mad at me a few times in our relationship...and he always came home.

I must be crazy.

Regardless of all that, the first thing I see in the morning when I wake up is Jeremiah's face right in front of me. Sometimes in my sleepy haze I cry when he has to leave, or I whine whine whine. I grunt 'Nooonnoonooo...' and he patiently pries my fingers off of him, kisses me and leaves.

Every time I look at his face, or make him smile and every single time we make love I am reminded of how much I adore him and how glad I am to have him. This is probably as annoying to him as the whining, gripping, half asleep banshee he has to snog every morning.

But all this brings me to my general point. I love him more than anything in the whole entire world. There. I said it. Skewer me now.

Ayelet Waldman wrote this article for The New York Times and was practically burnt at the stake for it. I remember when she was being talked about all over talk radio/television and especially on The View. She was being attacked mostly by Starr Jones...who, last time I checked didn't have any children OR a successful relationship. ANNNNDDDD now I'm attacking her. Wow. It's a viscious cycle.

The last two paragraphs speak to me more than the rest. They speak to me because of my past, of not loving my daughters' father like I 'should' have, of feeling guilty for loving Jeremiah that much more everyday.

I think of the way Jeremiah's left eye dips slightly lower than his right. I think of the scar on his back, the one he can't see. I think of the space of skin between his shoulder blades that pinches when he's stretching. I think of the way he looked at me the first time we kissed after not seeing each other for years and years:
I felt a growing ball in my chest as I got up from the table, from where I had been sitting across from him in a dark pub. I smiled, giggled, leaned over as I was walking past our table, stepping down off of the bench ledge. I leaned my face into his and I could feel the warmth explode in front of us, circling and exploding in tight spirals.
After we kissed I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My face was bubblegum pink, my eyes glossy and shiny, I felt thinner, I felt...joyful.

And if my children resent having been moons rather than the sun? If they berate me for not having loved them enough? If they call me a bad mother?

I will tell them that I wish for them a love like I have for their father. I will tell them that they are my children, and they deserve both to love and be loved like that. I will tell them to settle for nothing less than what they saw when they looked at me, looking at him.