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We are lucky that—for the moment, at least—my grandmother is cheerful in the face of adversity. She is strong and fragile. She is stubborn and demanding and sweet and hilarious and sad and confused. She is a concentrated version of who she always has been, someone who changed my life and who inspired me and still inspires me. She goes missing sometimes, lost in her own mind, but when she comes back she is still the same strong woman who proudly wears the birthmark of a bird with a broken wing.
It’s why I fight with Victor in front of our child. I fight in front of them because one day I want them to have a good marriage. (And because usually I’m right and it’s nice to have a tiny Judge Judy in the back seat.) It’s also why they will probably eventually say that fighting is not okay to do in front of kids and will hide all their fights, and each generation will continue to fuck up their children in their own special way. Sorry. I wish I had better advice here but I think what I’ve learned is that either way you probably fuck your kids up, but if you’re just honest about it it’s a
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It’s a strange thing … to be tangled up in things no one else really cares about. To be so busy with worry that your constant back-and-forth looks like utter inaction. To be so afraid of doing something wrong that you end up doing something worse. To be exhausted by a marathon that looks like complete paralysis on the outside but feels like being on both sides of a violent tug-of-war on the inside. It’s not just emails and chapters and voicemails. It’s more. It’s the whole world. It’s every terrible thing that happens in the universe that I feel like I need to speak out about but then don’t
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