Friday, January 24, 2014
When I was 16 years old I was a fall down, roll around, laugh for no reason drunk. I had a stash of little minibar bottles of liquor under my bed, in my closet, under my underwear drawer. I'd sweet talk friends into letting me swipe their daddy's beers and their mama's vodka. I'd bat my lashes at anything that might look my way if it meant a free bottle. I never stooped so low as to sell my body but damned if I didn't get close to that desperate. If I wasn't boozed I wasn't functional. I wasn't myself unless I was buzzing along. And then one day I went in to the doctors because I felt so nauseous and gross ... and an hour later I was staring at this tiny little inexplicable miracle, a little heart pounding away, and I was undone. I poured out my stash. I never looked back. My son, he saved my life.
Friday he turns 7 years old and I can't help but lay here, wrapped in nostalgia. My first born, my Lil man, my love bug. Where has time gone? And why did it go so fast? I still remember how small he felt in my arms, how fragile. Now I can barely puck him up. His golden curls are gone, replaced by think dark brown hair and a million cowlicks but those sweet,root beer eyes still stare up at me with a crooked smile: dimples and all.
One day when he is old enough to understand, I'll tell him. I'll tell him how just watching his tiny heart beat changed me. How he saved my life and how when he looks up at me with those trusting brown eyes I want to be a better person. I want to make the most of this life, for him.