Yesterday a friend came by to show off his little bundle of joy - and what a bundle she was. I love babies. I adore babies. I'd have six more if I could, but don't panic - I can't, I won't, and I'm not begging for grandchildren. But holding that little angel, feeling her tiny toes through her little socks while I stared into those intelligent, inquisitive blue eyes that were sizing me up to see if I were good enough to hold her.... even though there was no blood relation, at that moment, if anyone had tried to lay a hand on that child, I would have responded like a crazed mother bear, and ripped his head off with a single swipe of my hand. And I would have had no regrets for doing so.
I've never been good with expressing emotions. I always felt that emotions were a sign of weakness - part of being raised as my father's "son", I suppose. Lately I'm having a hard time bottling up those things that bubble up when people start flinging arrows and stones. Some I deserve. Others, less so. Innocent comments get taken out of context and used to further some cause. I make a genuine post about an overwhelming feeling I have, and someone turns it into an accusation, based on some sort of internet statistic that proves I've posted in response to something else. Frankly, I don't see the connection. I get angry more often than I used to, but I often feel like I've been kicked in the gut too. I'm not accustomed to that one. It usually brings tears. Intended kindnesses are perceived as attempts to control. And this post will be labeled as an attempt to send someone on a guilt trip - but hey - if the shoe fits, baby, wear it out.
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