Tonight, I write as quietly as possible so as not to wake my snoring husband (c'mon's only 7:54pm). I wish to write a note to my parents.

I love my parents. They are two of my best friends, even though one of them talks too much and the other hardly talks at all. Somehow, our relationship just works; it always has.

This morning I woke up before the girls and massaged my tender face and eyes after a night of tears. I have decided I should never start a serious conversation after about 8pm because my emotions get the better of me, and I am unable to stop the tears from falling. Anyway, the point of telling you this is not to discuss my weepy squabbles with a very logical man late at night, but to tell you of what happened the next morning when I woke up.

I woke up feeling foolish and swollen, as already noted, and I felt alone. It was 6:15 in the morning, and I thought who in the world can I call at this early hour? I needed to talk to someone. I fumbled around for my phone, knocking books of my nightstand in the process, and I texted my mother. I knew it was early, and I knew she would be trying to sleep in on her one day off, but I also knew she would not fail me. She would answer, and she did. She responded within minutes and soon we were talking things through as two irrational women should. It was just what I needed. In fact, she is always what I need.

On a very different note, but in the same vein of gratitude, I feel the need to also address the man I call my father, or the who hardly talks at all. He may not say much, but he says what he needs to, and more than that...he does what he needs to. My dad is a doer. He's always silently helping people. When we moved to San Diego, I called and asked my dad to meet us here so I could have some help with the three kids and six pieces of luggage in the airport. It seemed an impossible task at the time. Without hesitation, my dad noted the weekend and made arrangements to drive here with my grandma to help me on my first day in a new place. Before we arrived, he stocked my shelves with some "essential" food items to make sure we'd have enough to eat until Tim arrived, and he stocked the bathrooms with rolls and rolls of toilet paper. That toilet paper lasted until the first week of this month when I finally found myself in the paper aisle of Target, and we just barely finished the last can of tuna.

The older I get I learn to appreciate all the little things my parents do for me. I love them. I don't tell them that enough, but I do. And I will be forever grateful this year has allowed me to see them more than previous years. I'm honestly unsure what I will do when it goes back to the way it was before. Obligatory sad face. :(

1 comment :

  1. I was thinking about them in the same way yesterday.


"Be kind and considerate with your criticism... It's just as hard to write a bad book as it is to write a good book." Malcolm Cowley