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I am many thousands of feet up in the air.  No, I don’t know how many thousands, and I don’t care to know how many thousands.  It is enough to know that it is too many.  Like way too many.  It is not NORMAL to be thousands of feet up in the air.  We were NOT designed to fly…in a tube…thousands of feet in the air.

I do believe, one of the sole purposes of alcohol invention, is to allow people to do things they wouldn’t normally do.   For some of you sick minded souls…you may be thinking gutter thinks (that IS a word)…and I do agree..that happens..when alcohol is involved.  For me..alcohol allows me to fly.  In a tube.  In the air.

And to somewhat survive motherhood.

I just walked..or tilted..to the back of the plane to go potty (yes potty..don’t you SAY potty too?).  And while waiting for one of the miniscule-closet sized-better-not-eat-a-big-sandwich-lavatories to become available, I stared at a mother and child in the very last row.

Wait.  Please hold.  This mother f’ing plane is BOUNCING IN THE SKY AND I HAVE TO CONCENTRATE ON NOT CRYING LIKE A WILD ANIMAL.

Ok…as I was saying…I was staring intently at the mother cradling her small child in her arms as they both slept. And my heart twisted.  Yearned.

My.  Heart.  Yearned.

For my own babies.

You see people, I do love my sweet little babies.  All four of the satanic off springs.

And as I stared at this sweet picture, it made me realize that sometimes, I paint a fake picture of how much of an ass-wipe mother I am.  I might hint that I don’t care as much as I do..actually…care.

I care.

A lot.

Sweet love being 'wheeled' out after her surgery.

Sweet love being ‘wheeled’ out after her surgery.

I cared a lot..when my two-year old went in for double eye surgery this last week.  And I couldn’t breathe waiting in the lobby area for her.  Making all kinds of promises to God. Wishing…praying..that I could take her place.  Second guessing.  Crying.  Shaking.  Holding her sweet hand after surgery, waiting for her to wake from anesthesia, with an IV in her teeny tiny arm, thinking I would swap places with her right that minute if I could.

I cared a lot…when I got a call last night from the university my son attends, with a very odd voice mail…at 8:30pm AT NIGHT.  Then when he didn’t answer his cell.  When his room-mate was being very obscure about where he was.  When I became a stalker and called his work pretending to be someone else. When I called the campus police and begged them to go to his dorm for me. And then waited.  While I called his cell over and over again.  For over an hour.

I care.

I love my babies.  So much.

But let me be frank.  I also struggle.  A lot.

I struggled a lot with being loving and sweet to my precious two-year old, when two days after surgery, she was being quite a shithead brat, having temper tantrums and throwing things to get her way (don’t EVEN give me the ‘but she is confused and hurting from her poor traumatic surgery’).

I struggled a lot with being NICE to my son, when he FINALLY called me back..from a girls number..saying he doesn’t know WHY the university called me, that his battery was dead and that all was just honky dory (“oh and mom…did you send the police to my dorm…?”…”no son..not sure why they showed up there….”)

I am sure, the lovely mother in the last row, struggled a lot with her little sweet pumpkin pie, as we were taking off, and I heard him screaming bloody murder….for over 22 minutes.

This is the REAL reason alcohol was invented I do believe.

I am sometimes a fake.  I am.  I huff and puff about my seriously bad antics as a mother.

But mostly, I care.  Usually.

Oh and I care…a lot..about not crashing in this damn plane.  Where in the world is the flight attendant?  I really need another glass of wine.

Cheers!