So, I’m drunk. With my mom and step-dad. Every time I visit we get drunk once or twice, and it’s frankly pretty fun. Because I don’t generally talk to my mom that openly. And my step-dad’s a great guy, but I only see him a few times a year, so we’re not all that bonded. So the drinking of the vodka is a helpful social lubricator… for me. My mom drinks wine. My step-dad’s a Cutty Sark man. Then there’s chatting and ice cream, and sometimes singing, and it’s all very nice. Very familial. Very f’ing drunk.
What comes out of this particular alcohol session is that my mom thinks I should do in vitro. (Apparently WP’s mom agrees, so maybe it’s a generational thing.) And then I get all gooey about wanting to be pregnant, and I start to think seriously about it all and realize I really need to have a conversation with the one gay guy I know who I’d consider as a father to my future theoretical in vitro created baby.
Oy. It’s all so complicated.
One nice moment. In the middle of a whole thing about who’s dead lately and how everyone who’s not dead yet is dealing and when so-and-so who’s almost dead is actually going to bite it, my mom mouths to me, across the table, “I love you.” And for once in my life I actually kinda believe she means it.