Most things up to this point have been admittedly half-assed. There are a few things that weren't: you. him. mood swings.

If things are to work out, a recipe must be followed in the swill that is the brain. Wild accusations must be shouted from one side to the other (internally, usually while playing in the park), memories are irrevocably dredged up that make no sense at the time (your crazy Aunt telling you about the Devil meeting her at the foot of the very bed you slept in, mixed in with the image of a black widow on your front lawn in Georgia - baked in the heat/dead...you always had to have your clothes changed, that red clay gets on everything pretty). Those are two stories that have never been finished, and were barely begun. You have so many. Think of Margaret Wise Brown. Think of how she shared with the world and still shares in her death. Stop being such a bitter old fool.

The realization that you're turning into a bitter old fool who looks back too much. Instead of looking straight on into your beautiful son's face. Like a spoiled brat, no longer able to get what you want (your hair still bounces the same as it did at three, clouds of raven feathers) and it's no longer cute when you're 31.