I try to grab hold.
They speed past me, talking in tongues, learning, absorbing, wanting. The absolute wants of this age.
Vivian is already foreign to me, her legs sprouting, her mind expanding into a person. Not my child, but a person, a singular being which I must eventually learn to let go of. I’m already learning as she pours her own cereal and spreads her own peanut butter and changes her own channels, knowing where Ben 10 or Sonic X is on her “Gets the Remote” day.
In less than a month she shall be 5. In less than 2 months, she starts school, and the rest of her life. My utter singleminded devotion-that part of my life is ending. Now it’s time to step back, and let them fall when they need to.
I have a feeling that this part will be worse than the last.
I hold Rosalyn even closer. My baby, my sugar child, my sweetness and light. I keep her young for me, knowing it’s wrong. I listen to her honeyed lisp and sparkling eye and try to imagine how much I love her, knowing I can’t put a number on it. Her sister flies by us, singing and dancing and lighting up the world.
Be strong my daughters. Be willful and magical and happy and lay in wait for miracles. Hold your own, win your way, have your way. Take it all with you, as I wait, resolute, my arms held forth for you if you need a rest. Be strong, daughters of my womb, pieces of me. You carry my soul, you carry my blood, you carry the atoms we’ve likely handed down for generations, knowing yet not knowing.
Yet it could just be the vodka talking.