the comfort of farts

I gave four hours of massages in a row today. Ugh. Although I can’t complain, because without these massages I wouldn’t be able to eat. Literally. During my last one, I got a talker, which I hate. I don’t like it when my massage therapist talks when I get a massage and when a client talks to me, I can’t do a very good job—I’ve never been a good multitasker. Anyway, this client talked about everything. One of the things he talked about the most was about his ex who left him seven years ago. He said he can’t get over him, that he loves him more than anyone in his life (would walk in front of a truck for him), etc, etc, etc. I’d like to say it was the first time I’ve cried while giving a massage, but we would all know better, wouldn’t we? After yesterday, it was really the last thing I wanted to hear. Especially when I knew Chad was with his mom at that very moment. I know it sounds silly, but I really miss her. His family truly became my family. Blah!

The rest of the day, I spent with my brother and Gavin. I got projectile vomited on, farted on endlessly, and the movie was interrupted by crying. And, I couldn’t have loved every second any more. For the last couple hours, he just slept on my chest and snored. Perfection. I caressed his head endlessly—I always get bored so easily, and I’ve never seem to tire of simply staring at him. I began to think of all the heartache in my life and how it would be worth it or bearable if only he wouldn’t have to face such pain. Sadly, I know there is no such promise—the exact opposite, in fact. I guess the most I can hope for him is that the pain he will experience will have sprung from something that is of worth, something that brought joy, something that made him soar, and that he will always be surround by those who love him, even when he is a farting, vomiting mess, and will help make his pain bearable and surmountable. That he will know he is loved beyond measure.