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Belonging
I woke up hot and sweaty in my daughter’s bed last night. Tia Magda was in my bed, and will be nightly until her departure in ten days. Nina is begrudgingly allowing me to share her bed, thusly. Not that she has a choice. Yes, she’s 18 now, but I still pay the mortgage, and if I have to get heavy, I will.
She saw reason, however. Besides, I think a part of her doesn’t mind it. Even loves it. I’m her mom, after all. How many more times will we get to share a bed in our lifetimes?
Of course, she shared my bed for many years. Both my kids did. We had a “family bed,” though without ever intending to go that route. We just did what came naturally. And it turned out to be natural for both my kids to exit my bed at the age of 12. Until they were 12, we were a tangle of arms and legs. My daughter had a special way of tossing her legs over mine in the same way every night.
I was hot and sweaty maybe because I’m 51 and still experiencing the occasional hot flash. Or maybe it was the Margarita and the Zinfandel after that. I tend to think it was the latter. Me and alcohol have a tenuous, cagey co-existence, a love-hate relationship. I so enjoyed my Margarita last night. I enjoy everything about it. Making the decision to have a cocktail. Pulling the blanco Tequila from the top glass shelf in the kitchen, then the orange liqueur. Finding the heavy, green lime squeezer, the stainless…
