Lonely

Dear Lorenzo,

I miss being loved.

There.

I said it.

That wasn't so hard to admit.

I miss being loved and cared for.

I miss not being alone.

I miss having someone to come home to who isn't ten years old.

I miss having someone to whom I can complain about my day.

I miss having someone to be mad at for blasting the music too loudly when I'm trying to get Amira to go to sleep. Or for not letting me eat one bite of movie theater popcorn until after the previews have ended and the movie has actually begun. I miss listening to your long ass lectures on the merits of veganism, and your mean-spirited gossip with my mom about every single one of our friends.

I miss your not being here to watch our daughter grow up.

I miss the way, eight years into our relationship, your arms still wrapped themselves around me each and every night. I miss the way you'd wiggle your eyebrows at me and say, "Mommy Daddy time" whenever we got five seconds to ourselves. I miss the way you laughed with your entire being, often falling off of whatever you happened to be sitting on, inevitably making me laugh right along with you.

I miss the way you'd order three different meals at The Diner, and then have the nerve to get mad at me for "wasting money" on the chicken ranch salad. I miss banging on the bathroom door and shouting at you to hurry up. I miss listening to you talk to Dwight about Madden, or the NFL, or how much money you'd each won (or lost) in Vegas. I miss hearing Amira call out, "Daddy?" and your response of, "Daughter?" each and every time.

I wonder how long it'll be before I stop missing you this acutely. I know I'm nowhere ready to be in a relationship with anyone else yet but...I wonder how long it'll take before I no longer feel like I'm in a relationship with you.  

Because no matter how much I miss you, Babe, I also miss having someone who is...tangible, who I don't have to communicate with via letters that I can never actually mail. I miss having someone who is here. I miss having someone to want to look pretty for.

I miss not being alone.

Slowly, Surely

Dear Lorenzo,

Today was a good day.

 I lived my life with purpose today.

But my morning did not begin in the auspicious manner in which I had hoped it would. Despite setting my alarm for 5:15 a.m., I woke up at 3:30 and could not get back to sleep no matter how hard I tried. I watched a little tv, practiced my deep breathing, and even made myself a snack of a peanut butter-topped rice cake (my equivalent of a cup of warm milk) before throwing in the towel and taking two Tylenol PM. As usual, that did the trick and I was able to get two more hours of sleep before dragging myself out of bed at 6:00 a.m. to workout.  

I got Amira to school (on time!) before heading to work where I had a productive and busy day. 

I picked up Amira at 3:00 p.m. and, instead of rushing to play production, I let her play at the park for an hour with her friends before heading home, washing the breakfast dishes, and preparing her dinner (AKA, ordering Mexican food on grubhub).

And then...I checked off the #1 item on today's to-do list. 

I took a nap.

As soon as Amira went upstairs, I didn't do laundry, I didn't clean the bathroom, I didn't make the pancakes she'll eat in the morning for breakfast. Instead, I turned off every light in this house and I took my ass to sleep.

You see, last night, by the time I got Amira to bed, I was EXHAUSTED. I was so tired I could barely see straight let alone blog. I tried to write to you (I still have the first paragraph of yesterday's entry in my drafts folder) but I was so fucking tired that the words on the screen were a blur and after a few minutes I had to give up on my writing. 

I have ALWAYS given up on my writing. 

Because I never knew that in order to be a writer, I actually had to make the time to write.

On some subconscious level, I really believed that a burst of inspiration would one day come to me from the clouds and then, poof! I'd be a writer.

Newsflash.

That isn't how it works.

I'm a writer RIGHT NOW, TODAY, sitting on my bed with Amira sighing contendedly beside me, BECAUSE I'M WRITING.

I spent so many years lamenting the fact that I'd never be James Baldwin that I forgot to figure out who Khadija Brewington was.

But at 44 years old, and a single mom, I'm ready to find my own voice.

Because I truly believe that it's never too late to make your dreams come true.