"The impossible is happening!" I tell my son, jumping up and down, over the moon. "No, only the improbable, Mom," he says and goes into his room to change into footie pajamas.
But good things are happening, good people are rising up into my life out of the fog like bodies in Night of the Living Dead, but in a good way, a good bodies come to life way. Ghosts of ideas made flesh, given feet.
I wake from a vivid dream. We're playing a game called "Does It Need a Napkin?" in which gadgets and toys and entire rooms alternately explode, burst into flame and cause us to fall and roll in the mud or are very neat and tidy and require no napkins at all. I stumble into the kitchen to remove all of the piles from the counters into other piles, so the tile guys can come, two years after the start of our renovation.
I have loved donuts with the passion of the Christ. I have worshiped at the altar of coffee ice cream and chocolate eclairs, jelly beans and cotton candy. I have offered myself as a bride to a jelly roll. But recently I haven't craved the taste of sugar. I've looked at my old lovers and thought, "you aren't for me." I want to find the real source of my hunger.
Every Passover when we read about the slaves being freed from bondage in the Haggadah, my mother talks about addiction, says the 12 steps are the family religion, and for those of us who have made our way, defeated into some church basement or another, that rings true.
For Mother's Day we could take a picnic to the park but we work on restoring order to the chaos of our home instead. I do laundry, dishes, go to the grocery store, mow the lawn and it feels right, empowering. I only act like the victim of the choices I've made for five minutes and no more. These are the choices I've made.
I have had a few moments of escapism fantasy this week that were as painful as poison ivy. Once fantasy trumped reality but now I want to live fully in every aspect of my crazy life, this life. This is the real doctoral program, my PhD.
The improbable is coming true.