Mort Ality
After emailing with a friend with an ailing mother, I realized tonight that although I’m not afraid to die (I’m really not, I’m cool with it), I’m terrified of my parents dying. In my book, they’re immortal.
The only thing I can console myself with right now is that I should hope to the high heavens that my kids will want to hang out with me as much as I do with my parents.
Of course they will. And if they don’t, mine will. Last night I saw a little boy-maybe 2 or 3 – all pimped out with baggy jeans and huge (1 or 2 carat?) bling in both his tiny little ears. While this is enough to mortify most people, I have to admit I found it very charming. I started fantasizing about the day I can dress my kids ghetto-fab. You know, like little dolls or something. I can hear them whining “but mom, we’re half irish…”, those ungrateful little bastards… after all I do for them…