New York three weeks down. Keanu worries about me; about me being
happy. He is concerned that I have no personal space. He thinks that I should
stay at Joe’s house once a week so I can make noise past 8:30 p.m. and watch
some TV (ha! What do you think of that Joe?) He thinks that after all this
confinement that if I actually get a chance to go out I may go wild or
something. I tell him that he worries too much. Mostly I just feel like this
thing has nothing to do with me really. It is all for my Mom for the most part
and my son. I am secondary.
Funny enough, I am not really bothered by any of this; by the lack of
personal space, privacy or alone time. The sleeping arrangement could use some
improvement (let’s not talk about it, it is too weird) but the four of us function
well as a family. We jump in to do chores. Whenever I do dishes my sister is
grabbing the towel to dry. My Mom was out doing yard work and would not accept
help (her claim was poison ivy) so instead we made her lunch with a cold glass
of iced tea. My son makes his bed every day the way Grandma taught him to. I
cook dinner and pick up needed supplies when running into town to go to Starbucks.
We sit down together every night and eat a meal. It is nice.
Maybe I am happy. Maybe I am happy but I feel too guilty to actually
admit it even to myself. It is hard to be happy when you have made someone who
you love so dearly completely miserable. It is hard to be happy when you feel
downright selfish sometimes. But it is hard not to be happy seeing my Mom’s
ultimate patience and finesse with her grandson; seeing her sprint after him on
the beach to jam a giant handful of algae into his board shorts; watching her
let him give her dogs way too many treats during the day just because he loves
doing it. So are we happy? Who’s to say?