Momnesia

Children Care About the Professions of Their Parents

"You a silly, mama. Why you so silly?"

"That's just the way I am, doodle. Never been cool. Probably never will be."

"I like silly. I like you berry mush. But, sometimes, I wish you was a dahtor."

"You wish I was a daughter?"

"NO! I wish you was a DOH-tor."

"A doctor?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Well. So does Wachovia."

"Who's dat?"

"Nevermind. Point is, there'd be some benefits in that. But I'd work longer hours. And I'd miss you."

"I miss you, too. But, if you a dohtor, you could take care ub me when I was sick! An' I not hab to go to da hospital."

"Honey, you haven't been in the hospital since you were born."

"Yeah. But my daddy was berry sick."

(Silence. I don't know how to proceed from here. Is she worried about her father? About herself? Is this idle musing, or a fully-formed train of thought crashing into the station)

"He's not sick anymore, sweetie. He still gets tired sometimes, but we don't have to worry about him anymore. He's all better, and he's not going to get sick again."

Of course, he may very well get sick again, but it's not likely to be TTP again. And I think what she needs is reassurance that mommy doesn't have to be a doctor for her to be safe. I think she may also need for me to take her a little more seriously, just in general.

She sighs: "I know I know." She's heard it all before. Daddy's all better. Daddy's going to be okay. Mommy and daddy are home for good. But those words don't measure up against the sight of seeing your father weakened, bedridden, covered in tubes and surrounded by beeping machinery and medical personnel so sterile that they must sleep in Ziploc bags.

Suddenly, and with a searing pain that makes me thankful for its brevity, I have a crushing vision as to what she might have felt, seeing her father on the verge of death, while her (asshole) mother pawned her off on her grandparents.

I feel like Atlas.

My poor baby!

I don't have any more words. And they don't hold enough meaning for this. Instead, I pick her up and cradle her like a baby. She closes her eyes, smiles, and snuggles into me and sighs softly. We spend a good half-hour in a gentle, silent embrace. After a while, she opens her eyes, raises a soft little hand, and pats my face.

"Danks, mama. You a good mama."

One day, I hope I will be.

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