I cheered, "hooray!" before thinking, oh fuck, because, oh fuck.
Bo is still moving rather slowly. She gets up on her knees, crawls a couple of paces and then flops back on her belly. It's all very slo-mo and not at all intimidating.
Revi? Is terrifying.
I don't even know what I'm going to do once Bo picks up the pace and starts running her own amok.
This week I got to enjoy some major dental work because of a stupid almond which I chipped my tooth on, like, two years ago. I took a picture of my giant numb lip post tooth-sanding-down-fire-mouth because I thought it looked awesome and went on to spend spend my day making faces at myself in strangers' sunglasses. Because, come on. It's not every day one gets to spend the day with
lustrous, pillowy lips.
lustrous, pillowy lips.
Anyway. We had an incredible childhood together but of course, as one often does, we lost touch over the years. I hadn't seen Theresa in years. I hadn't seen her brother in nearly a decade. Her brother who was my first kiss, my first love and heartbreak, the boy who launched a thousand Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul stories and arguably, my career.
So when the music swelled and B.Jay (Bart as he's now called) came smiling down the aisle, I burst into tears. Not because I hadn't long recovered from the heartache of my youth but on the contrary. I had long recovered. It has been years since I loved him. And in a way, for a moment, I missed that feeling. Of being young and mortifyingly naive. I missed having a best friend who lived next door and how we'd spend the summer in wet bathing suits, playing Marco Polo well into the night as the pool lights illuminated our chlorine stained hair.
As she came around the aisle, arm in arm with her dad, I lost it. For obvious reasons, her beauty, happiness, the look on her father's face, but perhaps, selfishly, I also cried for us. For change and how different we used to be. How simple. How young. How the last time I attended a wedding with Theresa, it was for our Barbies.
At the reception, buzzed from the cocktail hour, makeup smeared from the ceremony, I went to find her and with tears in our eyes we hugged and sang Come Undone at the top of our late twenty-something early-thirty-something lungs. Except this time? I didn't tie her to a chair with my bike chain.