unicorn

Every year, on my son’s birthday (last week), I get to contemplating where I am and where I’m going. Son’s birthday probably seems weird,  but getting knocked up at 18 as someone who didn’t want children, giving birth when scheduled to write my OAC French exam and scared and running and idontknowwhatthefucktodobuti’mhavingthisbaby is a bit of a big deal in one’s life. I would imagine.

He’s now 16. He’s probably the most compassionate, thoughtful person I know.

The daughter just graduated grade 8 and will be going to high school. She’s probably the grooviest, most imaginative person I know.

I. Made. Them.

They. Came. Out. Of. Me.

We share genes and jeans and dresses and makeup and cups and sometimes underwear (inadvertently).

Crazy.

We could have been statistics, but we’re not. We’re thriving.

It’s been a while since I’ve been in this place. The one from which I feel atop a mountain my goaty hooves got me to and can look around and breathe and say ‘I did this’. The one in which I feel deserving of all that has been accomplished.

I’ve been brow-beating myself away from this space for a long time, but I’m here now. Thank you, home. Home that we created. Home that somehow came from nothing and manifested itself as a thing of the heart and that is shared and spread no matter where we are or have been or live.

I can look at this and feel like a unicorn again.

Life isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty fucking magical.

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