He stands on the stool, shirtless and wearing old pajama bottoms. Around his neck a homemade cape hangs denoting otherworldly powers. His blonde hair askew, and his face frozen in a rictus of rage and omnipotent power. Below him a boy in briefs and a camo shirt waves a spatula defiantly, even though this might be it for him. Facing this mighty foe, he regardless stands his ground, howling his strength and defiance.
My arm aches slightly as I look down at my burden, a fat smiling baby, shirt soaked in her own drool. Blue eyes survey her dominion beneath a mess of curly brown hair. A young boy dances unmindful of those around him, swinging a whisk like a baton. The music filling his ears, and his mind, is the only thing he cares of at that very moment.
A beautiful mother stands laughing at her ridiculous husband who somehow after years still thinks he can dance. She straightens the kitchen in an endless battle against the mess, knowing tomorrow she will retake this battlefield and engage the very same foe.
I pause in my dancing and my heart aches as I see my family, all mistakes. All unintended. What a grace, I have been given. In this moment, I don’t – can’t – remember the bad days, the days I am so tired and angry and hopeless. I can’t even see that because of the mystical beauty of life I am caught up in.
I never intended any of this, and yet here I am. How someone could intentionally put an end to this I cannot fathom.