Well. Here I am again.
Sitting at the table waiting on the consolatory tea to be made.
With that heavy sh*t feeling in my chest.
Wondering if I’ve set her up for a really sh*t day,
All because you couldn’t just keep your sh*t together.
The word that goes through your head.
As you put her tiny face in your hands and look into those eyes,
‘Have a good day;
I Love you’.
And you squeeze her face too tight
because you want to erase the moment where you were
a fucking asshole.
And I return home to the kitchen,
that I have been praying for silence in,
Which is now silent.
Except for a rumbling tummy
and I realise I haven’t eaten.
I think of all the ways I might make up for my impatience,
as I pick at an eggshell.
But then the insurance guy rings and the day begins for me,
two hours after I dragged myself out of bed.
Then I think of all those great parents I know and I wonder why they never talk about these moments.