One time

when the kids were smaller, we came home early from a New Years party at our friends' place because the boys were too little to stay up late, and in those days C often fell asleep next to whichever boy she was on that night (me? I'd stay upright, sing a lullaby—Bill Withers was a good go-to—then sneak out on tiptoes avoiding creaky floorboards once they snored) and so I found myself alone in the soft green reading chair, cold outside, dark like the inside of a worn blanket you found in the closet one time when you realized you were old enough to just go find an extra blanket when you were cold, when you were big enough to not call for mom and just find a blanket, and it was dark and it was warm, and I sat in the reading chair that night, a light snow through the window, and I'd poured two fingers of bourbon into a Santa mug and I put on Being There and I swear to you, I swear it, it timed out perfectly that right as the clock finally struck midnight, and I mean right as the clock struck midnight, "I Got You (At the End of the Century)" hit that climax crash after the fake ending, and I knew I'd be up in another two hours to settle a crying kid and to fret again but then, at that moment, I had you. And you. And you. And you. And you.  And you. And you. And you. And you.   And you.

And you had me too.