I wrote this for The Bug last night before bed, and then he kept me up so long that by dawn, I hated him. We're still not on the best of terms, having just fought for over two hours for the afternoon nap he desperately needed but refused to take. I need sleep like the motherhonker. We all do. Even he does. Anyway, this isn't really a poem. It isn't even really good. It's just crap I wanted to write down. But maybe re-reading it will remind me that I do love him after all.

You are more than an angel
you are the angel
our family's angel.
Wanted, longed for, prayed for.
You came and I understood destiny.
Many people desiring,
working and lighting candles and believing -
your Lola asking Saint Whatserface
for me, your mother, to come around.
Was it she, the Saint,
who tapped my shoulder
who sent your father and I to bed that night
gentle, her whisper in my ear:
Go now. It's time.

I never wanted a child.
Then I saw you behind
your daddy's eyes.
And I still don't know
what to do with a child,
but I love the person you are,
and all your humanity
makes the child stuff easy.

I thought I'd know what
I would feel when you were born:
elation, wonder at the Miracle Of Life.
I did not expect to feel so high from the drugs
and I did not know that I would
Recognize you - who knew?
I saw you, naked and perfect on my chest and
somehow, I knew you'd been here longer
than I
the epidural wore off, but this feeling did not.

I am doing many things wrong already.
One day, you may discuss this with your analyst.
But I have done some things right:
I have opened my heart to the idea
of the village.
I chose the best possible father for you.
I know my own limitations
and I am staying aware.

I mourn each of your new developments.
Look at the things you know already!
Each day, you amaze me.

You taught me the meaning of fear.

I thought I would cry when
I first heard your voice, but
maybe the epidural kept me from it.
Mostly you were just there
as if you always had been.
As if you'd just been on a trip.

I thought you could take this with you:
my words. A part of me.
But how funny. You are me.
You are your dad, too, and your grandparents.
You are all our time and experience.
You are our words, our life.
We were here so you could be here.

A teacher told me once
"Your parents have to die so you can live."
But I think parents must live so children can live.
For now, I'll put the dying ahead of me.