A recipe for disaster...oh-so lovingly averted
Before I met June I was an ugly gumbo of commitment issues, restlessness, and instability, and that's a gentle version of the story. I was pretty much resigned to the idea of never marrying, achieving a kind of self-induced downward spiral, and dying young in some dramatic accidental alcoholic suicide that involved lots of cops and helicopters. Not that I was any kind of gongshow individual, in fact, I was always quite responsible and kind, but I was long overdue for some decadence. I was a ticking time bomb of long repressed bad decisions. Then I met June, jumped on an airplane or twelve, wandered the pacific coast like a mescaline crazed fun preacher and settled into falling in love immediately after we punched our respective return tickets home.
We let our lives fall into place as only nature can allow, didn't rush a damn thing and then one day we were living together, then we were engaged, then married, then talking about kids as we slept in a cheap hotel room just off the 5 freeway in San Clemente. The last piece of our current lives is Zoey. When she was just two days old we set her on the bed, wondered what the hell to do, and then just watched the subtle construction of who we would become cooing and wiggling right there before us.
Of course we have careers and cars and problems and all sorts of other things like our parents used to have, but now there's this beautiful little bundle of startled love and a nearly inconceivable future with this little baby girl. The gumbo of impending disaster that I once was tastes a whole lot sweeter. My god Zoey, look at what you've done.