Unfinished posting

I keep starting posts that I don't finish, and perhaps this post will be the same.

Every post needs a reason, an explanation of its existence. This post exists because of migraine pills. Migraine pills are wonderful things. They take a head stuffed with cotton and lead, and turn it into feathers and air. They turn heavy, pained exhaustion into light, happy perkiness. They erase the migraine and replace it with energy.

My brain is full of energy. It knows that it must be awake again and full of energy in about six hours, but it does not want to go lie in the bed in the darkness while still set to "on".

And that, friends, explains why this post exists.

You may wonder what the other, unfinished, neglected posts have been about. Mostly happiness. I read most of a book on happiness in December, up until the day it was due at the library and I hadn't finished. I learned that happiness is a journey, and that we really aren't most happy when we are free of tasks, or when we have finally accomplished our goals, but that we humans are most happy while busy working towards meaningful goals.

And then I realized that I'm pretty happy most of the time. Except maybe I have too many meaningful goals, and I need to dump some. I didn't get that far in the book, actually, so I'm making that last part up. But I still stand by it.

Is it legal to admit in public that you are happy? I know it is fine to admit that you feel stressed out. That is a sign of accomplishment: busy people are important. It is legal to admit you get migraines, as long as you don't pull in a discussion about female hormones and cycles and boring medical stuff. Or is that interesting? Interesting blogs incorporate conflict. Or humor. Or how-to discussions. Or higher mathematics (kidding on that last one). If I pretend my blog is interesting, is there space to admit to happiness?

I doubt it. Happiness is boring.

To round out a boring post with other boring reasons for happiness: I only have one child, and as time passes, it becomes more and more likely that I will only ever have only one child. But he is enough, and more than enough to fill my whole soul with happiness. In the few days after his birth, his mere existence filled my heart with a rough fierceness that could only be understood as instinctual love of a mother animal. But as he grows into himself, his goodness, his beauty, his laughter and mischeviousness, himself, he makes that love soften and round out and expand, until now it presses against my insides every day. It is enough.

Migraine pills are wearing down. Bedtime.

See you in a few hours, world.