Monday, January 24, 2011
I hear the toilet flush, and the faucet turn on. I realize it's her, going to the bathroom by herself, and successfully. I wonder when that happened. I hear her tell me she loves me like she loves her Ugly Doll at bedtime. That's a whole lot. I see her face after bedtime peer into the family room where the Dad and I are watching a loud, offensive movie. I scoop her up and take her back upstairs. She tells me ... I woke up because I had to pee and I didn't want to pee my jammies so I got up and needed your help and I couldn't find you and you and Daddy are watching a movie! She tells me her Gloworm is broken and she couldn't use it to see. I hear her on Saturday mornings shuffle into our dawn-lit bedroom, and see her inches away from my face, silent and snuggly, warm at the corners. I flip her into the middle of us where she nestles for 20 minutes, still mute. She then breaks the silence and asks if she can have breakfast, and watch cartoons. Maybe something with vampires? I see her run to the sliding door and yank it open to holler at the Beagle when he's baying at the moon. I see and hear her do everything with intention. I think to myself, she is me. She's not who I want her to be. She is exactly who she is supposed to be.