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They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
    They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.
                                   ~~ Philip Larkin

 

She started school today.

Gold sparkle shoes.
A lavender shirt, bell sleeves, skirt of delicate flowers over leggings of a dark pink, motif of tigers at the ankle. Enormous Hello Kitty backpack over her slender, already elegant-goodbye shoulders.

“I do not want to go to school,”
she said.
I said
“you will have SO much fun”
lying about both the fun
and my enthusiasm.
I could not get to my car fast enough,
the tears hot like river-lava, unstoppable ~
as though someone had died.
I thought… perhaps have died.

 

 

 

 

When the child grew in my body I lost my fucking  mind. I did not sleep for 7 months. I went to 6 emergency rooms for suicidal impulse, was an in-patient for a few days of living Hell.

I took drugs that did not work.
I did not gain enough weight.
I was told she “might lose IQ points” because of the drugs/medication but that I of course needed to take them anyway.
No one measured my thyroid, which turned out to be so hyper it is a miracle she made it. People with those numbers don’t sleep. They buzz and humm and go and go and go.
But no. I was insane.
And I was indeed.
insane.
She was born, fierce force, hungry all the time. Perfect. Perfect beauty, perfect nurser, every hour eating and eating from the breast. She could not take enough life into her body.

She hasn’t changed. She is the same at almost 5 as she was at birth: life life more life. She speaks like an 8 year old, has the vocabulary any parent of a 10 year old would be happy with; she dissects moods like a scientist and has a Goddess-cruel streak that runs the family like a toddler-matriarchy. She is the mascot, the feared one, the adored one. She pronounces and announces; she uses the word “sarcastic” often and correctly.
She looks exactly like me, and has sophisticated opinions about my mascara, my manicures, my heels. She is a dictatorial femme and I absolutely worship her.

The baby.
The baby of the family, the harbinger of my divorce, the perfect being born to chaos, born to a father already living in loathing of the mother.

My child.
Je suis tres desole.

May your brilliance and strange strength carry you to horizons infinite, adventure without end, curiosity with no fear. May your life be the embodiment of Love, and Happiness. Remember to not ruin people with your wit and beauty. Go easy,
Baby.
Je t’aime. Toujours.

 

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