index | archives | notes Monday, Apr. 02, 2012 2:34 a.m. << [ The Pied Piper ] >> He holds my rib cage and doesn't afraid of anything, the boy who's so unlike what I wanted on paper. When I tell him about the crazy inside me that will inevitably rise again, he doesn't ignore it like baby boy, or run away like his nameless follower, he just laughs and tells me I won't ever get to that point with him. So far he's right, though, and even at two months in, all I've done is beat my fists and pout a bit. These are in no way the epic fits of my youth, this is sociodramatic play, and he knows the difference, knows he hasn't seen the crazy because every time it starts playing peekaboo, he coaxes it out and leads it away. He loves all the things about me that scared the others--loves that I'm a tough bitch, loves my self-destructive streak and lust for adventure, loves that I love my kids and know what I want. Maybe this would work after all. << | x | >> whatiscopyright.org