It is raining cats, dogs, hamsters, and the frogs that live in the park across the street. It has been doing this for over a day, and it's supposed to keep doing it for at least a day more-- perhaps longer, but all I know about the weather forecast is what NPR tells me.
The dog does not like to go for walks in the rain. The baby makes strange faces when a stray raindrop gets through the water-resistant armor I have surrounded his stroller with. (The extent to which I'm breaking maternal rules by getting him the tiniest bit wet is evident in the preposition I just ended that sentence, and this one, with.) I like the rain. I like being outside, moving around. But, to paraphrase my husband, my life is now controlled by small things.
So, we're all hanging out inside until further notice.
At around 4 this afternoon, when my NPR buddies were doing their #@#!## pledge drive, I gave up on contact with the outside world and turned on Van Morrison. Cheek to tiny baby cheek, I danced with my son around the living room. We listed to the song performed at my good friends' wedding (Crazy Love), then the song performed at my husband's and my wedding (Into the Mystic).
I asked my six-month-old if he would let me dance with him at his wedding to the lucky woman or man he chooses. I told him that I hoped he would get married someday to someone loving, funny, smart, honest. To someone he just knows is his person. Then I closed my eyes and imagined his cheek, decades from now, still feeling the same-- but his feet touching the floor.
And together, we all continue, toward the mystic.
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