Love and Basketball

Dear Aiden,

I’m not sure how old I was, but back in the day I played a season or two of recreational basketball.  I don’t remember what position I played or if my team was good or how many points I scored or really much about it at all.  It turned out that I didn’t really like playing basketball.  When my dad/your paw paw attempted to get to the heart of my issue, it basically came down to one thing:   I didn’t like people touching me.  You see in basketball, a certain amount of personal space is forfeited when say you are attempting to get a rebound or trying to draw an offensive foul or I thought basically anytime someone just felt like it.  And it wasn’t for me.  I need my personal space and don’t like people all up in my business.

So you’ll understand that every night after we’ve read our stories and turned out the lights and turned back on the lights and you’ve pooped and we’ve turned back off the lights and I brace myself to lay with you as you wind down and fall asleep, that it’s nothing personal when I eventually get up and leave you to fall asleep by your own damn self.  It’s only after you’ve somehow managed to kick me in the face…twice…and pulled my hair and used my boob as leverage to turn over and poked me in eye and maybe,  if you’re feeling extra crazy, head-butted me.  I take it rather gracefully in my opinion, but just as you start to tire, you throw in the grand finale of kicking my leg in a slow repetitive manner as you stare off to space.  It’s right when I feel the urge to crawl out my skin and die that I decide it’s time to say good night and head downstairs despite your “but I’m not touching you” pleas.  Because you are touching me.

Perhaps one day you can fall asleep peacefully in my arms like the good old days but for now I’ll just “send Dad”.

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Love,

Mom

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