A Thought-provoking Reception

“Those grandkids will be your entire life,” assured the woman, her face beaming.
Jesus, I hope not, I thought.
I was at the doctor’s office today, seeking treatment for my son.  The friendly receptionist had checked us in.  Then, in what has been the pattern of my life for decades, she proceeded to share with me the story of her life, going into great detail.  The remark about grandkids came at the end of my revealing the fact that like her, I am married to an alcoholic.
Don’t get me wrong.  I would love grandchildren some day.  I hope both my son and daughter experience the joy of being parents.  It has been a wonderful part of my life, being a mom.  But it is not the only thing I want.  At the end of the day, I want to be a terrific lover.  Someone who loves, and is loved, in bed and out.  Sprawled on a sofa, bent over a table, seated on a counter…you get the idea.
I may be getting older, but there’s still plenty of life left in the old girl.  In fact, there is a bit more life than there was years ago, what with all the new ideas I’ve read.   There are lots of men and women who are eager to try them out, and I suspect I could persuade at least a few of them to do so with me. 

And as important as the sex is to me, the love is equally important. Maybe even more so.  I want someone to love who loves me back unreservedly without resentment for past hurts. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I want that.

For now, though, I need to concentrate on my children to make sure they are okay.
“I love that name,” the receptionist commented.  “It means strong.”
“Yes, it does,” I replied, anticipating what she would say next.
“I named my son that too,” she said.   Bingo.  Just as I’d anticipated. I wasn’t psychic.  Of course she’d know the meaning if she’d selected it for her child. 
My child was silent, looking at her, waiting for her to finish the paperwork so he could see the doctor that he really hadn’t wanted to visit.  The one I was forcing him to see.
“How are you doing today?” she asked him.
“Not very well, thank you,” he said in a low voice.  My eyes filled with tears.  She gave him a paper to place in the box by the door leading into the clinic offices, and he left the counter while I completed payment. 
The receptionist had noted my son’s name on his medical record card.  She’d used the knowledge as a chance to share the fact that she had a son, too.    Now she looked at me sympathetically.  My child has been struggling for several days, falling deeper and deeper into a funk.  His voice has sunk to a whisper.  He moves like an old man, slowly and painfully as though his joints ache.  His eyes are dead.
The receptionist looked at my tear-filled eyes.  More to shift her attention from me than from any real interest, I asked her about her son.  “How old is your boy?”
“Thirty-five.”  She paused.  “He had a tough time of it, too.  His father was an alcoholic.  My husband.”  I nodded.  “I’m still with him.  I’m glad I stayed.  He gets in a mood some times, you know.”   She looked a little sad.   “But I just leave him alone and go over to visit my grandchildren.  They’re wonderful.”  Her face brightened.  “Do you have grandchildren yet?”
I shook my head.  “No.”  My children are much younger than hers.  They are still at home, which is, to at least some degree, why I am still at home.  I did not point out to her that one can enjoy her grandchildren even if she is divorced from their grandfather.
I watched the doctor greet my son in the waiting room and lead him into the suite of offices where they would talk for the next hour.  And I hoped that it would make a difference for my beloved, strong son.
milkynips milkynips
46-50, F
Sep 20, 2012