wealth of kings

It is rare, very rare, to have perfect days. Or almost perfect ones. Came goddamn close for the last two, though.
Yesterday, I was officially offered a job, the job, that I have most wanted on this loooong path of mine. Did I take it?
You bet your ass.
I had only to tell a few friends and suddenly all was right with the world. One took me out to lunch, and told the whole restaurant, including the bartender, about the exciting news. Toasts all around, even with people I didn't know. And all before 3:30. I was giddy by the time I went home to shower and get dolled up for a gala event. For the first time in a long time, after all of those compliments and positive energy, I saw what I wanted to see in the mirror.
Of course, the rum punch and the gushing strangers and hugs helped.
This morning, I woke up to find a gorgeous man in my bed. He was loving, attentive, adoring.
Then he asked me if I could make him a spinach omelet.
"No problem, Lucian." It took a bit to drag my ass out of bed, a little weary from indulging the day before, but still happy. I made the omelets, hunted down Anna's tae kwon do uniform (had to pull it out of the dirty laundry) and we were out the door to my favorite place; the farmer's market.
I plied the kids with chocolate croissants and while they ate contentedly under the tent, I breathed in the damp-dirt smell and felt up the begonias and foxgloves at the flower stand.
It doesn't take much to make me giddy.
Later, in the car, after martial arts and in a croissant coma Anna spoke up amidst the blaring lyrics of "Sweet Virginia."
"Avery's family is as wealthy as King Tut." She sounded almost indignant.
"Oh yeah, how do you know?"
"He told me. His nana has boxes of money."
"Just remember, Anna, the Pharaohs had slaves."
"Good point."
I'm not sure if she got the point, but she let the matter drop. Maybe she sensed the hope around her, maybe she was tired, who knows. "Sweet Virginia" continued to play, we all bobbed our heads to the rhythm of the Stones. And I felt like a king.
There is a cliche often used that we want better for our children than we had. The truth of this cannot be denied. I dream, pray, weep and worry over their quality of life. I think of my own childhood and the broken bits of that place and I am certain that theirs is a better one already. No, I cannot give them all that they desire, but what I do have to give, I give it with no attachment, no thought at all. And with the hope that there is more to come. The same friend who took me out to lunch and raised a glass to my success (and laughed at my flushed face after the rum punch) asked me about my "mothering style."
"Are you maternal? You know, that mother hen thing," he said.
I nearly choked on my calamari.
"Um, no. Actually, they hate me sometimes because I draw a hard line."
"So, you're like a momma bear, then? Not a June Cleaver."
"Yeah, you could say that. I'm not a nurturer, that's for sure."
"So, how would you describe it then?"
"Ferocious. I love them fiercely and recklessly," I said. I stopped at this.
Scary stuff. Not something I go around telling people, but the truth of it hit me tonight. In this weird silence punctuated by traffic noises and the neighbor's sad attempts at karaoke stardom.
I have my "people" and I love them fiercely. To the point of blindness it seems. The real killer (perhaps literally) is that once I decide to unleash this love on others, it is the very thing that may drive them away. What I think is one of my greatest gifts to someone is actually too intense to open. Good thing I know that now.
At least the kids can handle it, the rest can run.
I wonder if they ever realize, or will ever realize, that they were standing on a goldmine.