It’s something. I guess, a person like me, I should be happy with anything I get. The shit sandwiches and black eyes.

After all, I have been and believed I was, something you flush.

I love my son, I wasn’t allowed to see him for 6 years because I have a mental illness. OCD. And in some family courts, the bad guys do win.

I digress. My son, he’s 10.

He’s 10, and he doesn’t care for me very often. Especially when I’m around, and my wallet isn’t open.

Yesterday I think he felt something other than that. Maybe. 

I made him his Halloween costume. Not purchased at a store.

Getting him in it was a huge pain in the ass.

He bitched about me using my “girls makeup” to make his mustache. 

But when he saw it, the finished product.  I was his mother. And I was awesome and he loved me, and, “was I ready to go yet?”

Since May 15, 2015, I’ve been on the bathroom floor. 

The place I fell and didn’t move for 6 hours. 

Saturday, I got up. 

Like a proclaimed virgin on her wedding night, I know it wasn’t his first Halloween or slumber party.

It did not mean it wasn’t ours.

It’s okay to move on, 

I was so happy and felt nervous at the same time.

 It was his very first slumber party and the first night away from home ever. 

And like the newlywed husband on his wedding night, I was more than happy to believe the merciful lie.