It's late Friday and my kitchen floor is a psychedelic pastiche of multi-colored cereal, some adhered tenaciously to the kitchen floor. Toys, crayons, clothes spread willy-nilly thoughout my house - my Saturday is clearly defined as to what must be done. Scrape up the bits of cereal, put crayons back in the box, do the pile of laundry in the hamper, call X and see how the kids are doing... until then, I write, I miss my kids.
A little Cabbage Patch doll lays on the counter where I write, Lilly's "baby", I wonder how she sleeps without it. Lilly is so - oh, I hate to say this but it's true - ANAL; she won't settle down until she has all her dolls and animals all together and I know that X had to mollify her to go to sleep, assure her that daddy was taking care of the doll and that she'd have the doll soon enough. Mollify daddy, all I can think of is my baby, now 6-years old, hardly a baby but I can't think of her as anything else. Will I ever be able to think of her as anything else?
She hopes, she's so offended when I refer to her as "my baby". When I pick her up from her kindergarden class, she's so proud, so smart, so good, so full of her entrance into the world of adults, education, OUR WORLD and all I can do is walk her through the woods and point out the wonders of our world, our world right her at the foot of Pikes peak. The rest of our world is hers to discover and me to explain, honestly, with tears in my eyes. Our harsh world.
1 comment:
pastiche is a good word.
:)
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