My Little Man, Ryder,
As I lay flat in a tent trying to muster inner warmth so I can fall asleep among the Ponderosa Pines in Flagstaff, AZ, I think of you. I feel slightly closer to you. I am. Not only do I have that many less worldly worries (about dating, or grades, or paychecks) because I'm mostly consumed by thoughts of "Will I survive the night?" but I am also physically closer to you. I am about one-third of the way from San Diego to Denver, and a few minutes ago I honestly considered packing up all the camping equipment, getting in my car, and flooring it to Colorado.
I know, it was so unlikely, and irresponsible to even consider it. But I wanted it. I pondered, "Could I afford the gas? Could I drive that far without falling asleep?" The first two answers were a resounding yes. I would afford it, and lord knows I would be so excited about seeing you, I would stay awake until I got to Denver. But then what? Your 'Mom' and 'Dad' would probably shit a brick if I showed up on their porch. They would probably not even let me spend the day with you without supervision. And what about you? You're a brilliant 3-and-a-half right now. You would have questions--questions that would need to be answered-- about this strange woman who loves you so much; questions that you didn't have 17 months ago, when I last held you in my arms. And your 'big sister'? She would know. Has she been told otherwise? Does she know she's not allowed to talk to you about your other mom? That she's not to mention me? What do they tell her? These questions--questions that need to be answered--buzz around in my head as I lay frozen, pulling the sweater and mummy bag tighter around my face. I feel like I can't breathe. I open the mummy bag a little more, even though the cold air is shocking to my sinuses, throat and lungs. But it's not the mummy bag that is restricting my oxygen. I'm at 6900 feet elevation! God, it's cold. I think about how warm the heater in the car would be, driving through the night to see you. I think about how warm my heart would be, how fast my heart would beat, to have you back in my arms. And yet, writing this is the first time I have not cried when admitting these things in writing. The tears may be hesitant to fall, for perhaps they would freeze half-way down my cheek. Perhaps I'm healing. Perhaps your 'Dad' and 'Mom' would see that, and trust me more. I have to know... how far am I from where you sleep tonight?? I type your address into my map application on my cell phone: 686.1 miles. It would take me 11 hours and 53 minutes. Simple math tells me that's about 20 gallons of fuel. I just filled up. If I drove quickly, could be at your door by the time your 'big Sis' leaves for school.
But what about my responsibilities? School on Monday, and the friend who's counting on me for a ride back to San Diego on Sunday. I couldn't possibly drive all the way to Denver for just one day. I'd want to stay with you for... haha, that's a silly thought. There's no time limit I can put on that. I'd want to stay with you for... days? a week? Of course not. I'd want to stay. (Period.) I honestly would leave everything behind temporarily to just stay. I'd find a job in Denver, if I believed your 'parents' would open their hearts enough to let me really be a part of your life. I know it will be confusing for you to hear that I'm your Mama Anne (again), but I'd stick by you while you cried, and wait for you to overcome the confusion and fear; and be ready to love you and take care of you as much as they'd allow... but I think your 'Mom' would see one furrow of your brow and whisk you away from me if you showed the slightest fear or confusion as to having "two mothers."
I know, it was so unlikely, and irresponsible to even consider it. But I wanted it. I pondered, "Could I afford the gas? Could I drive that far without falling asleep?" The first two answers were a resounding yes. I would afford it, and lord knows I would be so excited about seeing you, I would stay awake until I got to Denver. But then what? Your 'Mom' and 'Dad' would probably shit a brick if I showed up on their porch. They would probably not even let me spend the day with you without supervision. And what about you? You're a brilliant 3-and-a-half right now. You would have questions--questions that would need to be answered-- about this strange woman who loves you so much; questions that you didn't have 17 months ago, when I last held you in my arms. And your 'big sister'? She would know. Has she been told otherwise? Does she know she's not allowed to talk to you about your other mom? That she's not to mention me? What do they tell her? These questions--questions that need to be answered--buzz around in my head as I lay frozen, pulling the sweater and mummy bag tighter around my face. I feel like I can't breathe. I open the mummy bag a little more, even though the cold air is shocking to my sinuses, throat and lungs. But it's not the mummy bag that is restricting my oxygen. I'm at 6900 feet elevation! God, it's cold. I think about how warm the heater in the car would be, driving through the night to see you. I think about how warm my heart would be, how fast my heart would beat, to have you back in my arms. And yet, writing this is the first time I have not cried when admitting these things in writing. The tears may be hesitant to fall, for perhaps they would freeze half-way down my cheek. Perhaps I'm healing. Perhaps your 'Dad' and 'Mom' would see that, and trust me more. I have to know... how far am I from where you sleep tonight?? I type your address into my map application on my cell phone: 686.1 miles. It would take me 11 hours and 53 minutes. Simple math tells me that's about 20 gallons of fuel. I just filled up. If I drove quickly, could be at your door by the time your 'big Sis' leaves for school.
But what about my responsibilities? School on Monday, and the friend who's counting on me for a ride back to San Diego on Sunday. I couldn't possibly drive all the way to Denver for just one day. I'd want to stay with you for... haha, that's a silly thought. There's no time limit I can put on that. I'd want to stay with you for... days? a week? Of course not. I'd want to stay. (Period.) I honestly would leave everything behind temporarily to just stay. I'd find a job in Denver, if I believed your 'parents' would open their hearts enough to let me really be a part of your life. I know it will be confusing for you to hear that I'm your Mama Anne (again), but I'd stick by you while you cried, and wait for you to overcome the confusion and fear; and be ready to love you and take care of you as much as they'd allow... but I think your 'Mom' would see one furrow of your brow and whisk you away from me if you showed the slightest fear or confusion as to having "two mothers."
The excuses that float to the tip of my fingers aren't because I don't want to go to Colorado; they are because I don't want to lose you again. I have to stay patient. I have to stay away. To give these precious years of your new life to them, and not be selfish and butt in.
But still, as a lay frozen against the solid ground in the middle of nowhere, Arizona, I fall asleep holding onto the warm thoughts that I'm that much closer to you.
