“Mama, do you remember when I had a baby brother or sister?”
For some reason, her memory goes back far enough to remember when I was pregnant last year, 14 months ago. “Yes, I remember when we thought you would have one. But you don’t have one now, do you?”
“No. It died.” She says this so matter-of-factly that it sucks air from my cells. “Mama, do you miss the baby from your tummy?”
“Sometimes, baby, yes, I do.”
“And that makes your heart hurt?”
“Yes, sometimes it does.”
And then she kisses me and asks if it made my heart feel better.
***
“Mama, what’s the name of your mom? Can I go to meet her soon?”
“One day, baby,” I say, not committing to a date or circumstances. Because there’s no reason not to introduce her to my mother and vice versa, yet something’s holding me back. It feels forced, the thought of it, so I know I’m not ready, yet.
***
“Mama, what’s your dad’s name?”
“Jim, love.”
“And he died, so he’s not alive any more. Right, Mama?”
“That’s right, baby.”
“So we can’t go see him. And he won’t come to our home?”
“No, baby. He won’t.”
“Was your daddy nice, like K’s daddy?”
“No, baby, he wasn’t.”
“Did he make you sad?”
“Yes, baby, he did.”
“That’s not a nice thing to do, when your daddy made you sad.”
“No, baby. It wasn’t.”
***
“Mama, do you love daddy?”
“Yes, baby.”
“Why?”
“Because I do. Because he gave me you and he’s been my best friend for a long time.”
“And daddy loves you because he shared with you his chicken. Right, Mama?”
“Sure, love. That sounds about right.”
“And he shares his drinks with you.”
“Yes, he does sometimes.”
“He doesn’t share them with me. They’re for grown ups cuz they got alcohol.”
“Exactly. You won’t drink grown-up drinks for a long time.”
“I just drink soy milk, or juice, or smoothies, or hot chocolate. Or water.”
She turns her hand over and over, as if dealing out the drink options. She doesn’t know that this conversation is the closest to heart breaking that we’ll have to deal with for a long time.
***
“Mama, are you mad with me?”
“No, baby, I’m not mad. Why do you think so?”
“Um, cuz your eyes look sad, but your mouth is mad.”
I’m humbled, thinking I was doing a much better job at keeping my stressful weight off of her shoulders. She’s a mind-reader, apparently.
***
“Mama, can I have a new brother or sister?”
“Maybe one day, baby. Do you want a brother, or do you want a sister?”
“I want a new baby so I can help with you rocking it and singing quiet so it sleeps.”
“Don’t you want the baby to play with?”
“Babies are loud. When they sleep, they’re not too loud for my ears.”
“So why do you want a baby, Isobel?”
“So I can love my own baby and it will love me back.”
I wonder if she’ll ever know that that’s the exact reason why she’s here now; I hope she doesn’t have her own children for that same selfish reason.
***
I’m always honest, but as you can see, I don’t hand her a dialogue of history. I answer her questions in a three-year-old-friendly way (at least I think so), but I don’t hide things or lie, either. It’s interesting: the facts she retains, the blanks she fills in for herself, the awareness she’s starting to show.
It’s like her mind is just opening right up, wondering why our life is the way it is. Asking what markers were on our map to today.
And then, just like that, with barely a blink, she snaps out of seriousness and becomes a silly little girl. Just as she probably should be.
