This is me waking up this morning and going, “Well, gee, we’re all unpacked, the laundry can be put away, I guess I should glue my desk back together, and HOLY GUACAMOLE WHY DIDN’T ANYONE TELL ME CHRISTMAS IS ONLY SIX DAYS AWAY!?”
(This is me realizing that it takes a little more effort and creativity not to bail out and say “holy fuck” all the time, and that someone like Sarah who can convey bile without cursing is someone my mother would probably like me to hang around with a little more.)
This is me waking up in the twenty-first century and saying, “Hold the phone! I can still go online and have all my presents delivered by Christmas Eve without paying exorbitant shipping costs.” (I recommend Williams-Sonoma’s candy selection and anything you can afford from this place that Jack cannot click on.)
And here I am eating lunch and thinking how pleasantly ordinary/miraculous it is that Jackson has his father’s hands. And his chin and his eyes and his hair. And how much biological connection to history and people and sunshine and rocks and Holy Roman dirt those little resemblances give me (as well as reassurance and further proof that Jack, indeed, is the father) (not that there was any question, but still, you know, it helps to have that in your corner) (how much must it suck to be acrimoniously divorced and your kid has a face exactly like someone you hate).
(Kill me before I parenthesize again.)
And how much do I love the fact that Jackson can look up at night and say “moon.” And then ten minutes later he can sit strapped into his high chair and shout “dot-dog!” (hot dog) at me until I am compelled to microwave up a Hebrew National, cut it into bite-size bits, blow on it like a billowy Renaissance god until he believes it won’t sear his tongue, and watch him inhale it while his father says with satisfaction, “That’s my boy.” (Not that there was any doubt, but like I said, every bit of confirmation.) (Oh, I guess you have to kill me now.)