Moving In

I am. Well, I'm not moving anywhere, but it's sorta the right idea. Well, I mean, my boyfriend is coming to live with us. He's the one moving in. With me. With my kids.

I'm actually not nervous at all, about the whole living-with-a-man-again thing. I had about a week of nerves, the nasty kind, the kind that make you pick fights and stir shit and spread blame, and now, I am so relaxed it's unbelievable. Cool as the proverbial cucumber, and serious as a coronary thrombosis, I am so sure about this, I'm downright smug.

He's lovely. Oh, God, he's so lovely. Decent. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Sweet. Fun to talk to, stay in with, go out with. I don't wanna talk about sex (lies, you filth, you *always* wanna talk about sex) but the very thought of him gets me going. He's cute, cute, cute, and very much to my personal, admittedly slightly odd taste. I almost can't believe he's going to come live, with me, by choice. Who would?? I'm nuts... and so is he, a little bit, for wanting me. I mean, not for 'wanting' me--many do--but for wanting me for keeps.

Are you sure, my love? Are you really, truly sure?

That's the only thing that makes me nervous, now.

What if he changes his mind? I'd live, I suppose, if he did; but oh. Figuratively speaking, I think my heart would implode.