(no subject)
As much as I know it hurts them, the tiny, selfish part of me knows that finally now my babies might understand. This was not how they were supposed to find out -- not through bathroom doors closed tight or through I-have-something-to-tell-you text messages or through the whimpers of their broken little sister. My babies' poor little muscles clenched so hard and sobs stifled so stiffly, with their tears falling into the toilet bowls that comfort them more than we do these days. My poor little babies.
My daughter calling herself in sick, because high school hallways are vicious and empty and don't understand. My daughter who doesn't sleep so well these days.
My son pounding beer after beer, ending the night in handcuffs and at kitchen tables and as part of conversations that fill him with hate. My son in whose old bed I sleep lately.
My daughter stopping mid workout to collapse unexpectedly from pains that have built in her heart. My daughter, whose respect for her hero was defeated by the enlightening clairvoyance of a treadmill.
I worry most about my blonde-haired baby, the one who looks at us closer. The one who wonders if every scar and bite mark and bruise are because of this. The one who loses friends like house keys, who wants to know me, who wants to know more. My baby who steals old photographs and hangs them in the bedroom closet. Who writes on walls and sleeps with the pillow over their head.
My baby who tolds us, "my heart hurts."
"If you had the chance," I hollered, "you would have gone with her!"
My babies don't know what kept him, but they're not sure it was them.
They remember the games from 16 years ago. The not-so-subtle hide-and-seek, giggling when they uncover mom&dad kissing at the bottom of the stairs. That kind of tenderness was private and special and pure. Don't peek, babies! But okay, come find us, and look. Because this is what true love looks like. You ought to know, because it won't be there forever. Not for us. Not for you.
The times from before. The bedrooms that bred naivety and taught lessons of promises. Saturday morning breakfasts, the kids laughing at his pseudo waiter persona. The vampire costumes and Easter egg hunts. The hand-made menus and makeshift fancy doorways. "French toast or pancakes, babies?"
All they know is that it was 15 years. They know about the angry moments on every trip to Disney. They know that the memories that once felt pure now feel forced and hollow. They know that home -- the house and the people and the feelings -- is backwards. Home is twisted and wrong and not so safe as they thought. That is all they know.
My daughter, the stubborn one. My son, the angry one. My daughter, the overcompensator.
And my husband. My husband, the -- well, my husband.
My poor, poor babies.
My daughter calling herself in sick, because high school hallways are vicious and empty and don't understand. My daughter who doesn't sleep so well these days.
My son pounding beer after beer, ending the night in handcuffs and at kitchen tables and as part of conversations that fill him with hate. My son in whose old bed I sleep lately.
My daughter stopping mid workout to collapse unexpectedly from pains that have built in her heart. My daughter, whose respect for her hero was defeated by the enlightening clairvoyance of a treadmill.
I worry most about my blonde-haired baby, the one who looks at us closer. The one who wonders if every scar and bite mark and bruise are because of this. The one who loses friends like house keys, who wants to know me, who wants to know more. My baby who steals old photographs and hangs them in the bedroom closet. Who writes on walls and sleeps with the pillow over their head.
My baby who tolds us, "my heart hurts."
"If you had the chance," I hollered, "you would have gone with her!"
My babies don't know what kept him, but they're not sure it was them.
They remember the games from 16 years ago. The not-so-subtle hide-and-seek, giggling when they uncover mom&dad kissing at the bottom of the stairs. That kind of tenderness was private and special and pure. Don't peek, babies! But okay, come find us, and look. Because this is what true love looks like. You ought to know, because it won't be there forever. Not for us. Not for you.
The times from before. The bedrooms that bred naivety and taught lessons of promises. Saturday morning breakfasts, the kids laughing at his pseudo waiter persona. The vampire costumes and Easter egg hunts. The hand-made menus and makeshift fancy doorways. "French toast or pancakes, babies?"
All they know is that it was 15 years. They know about the angry moments on every trip to Disney. They know that the memories that once felt pure now feel forced and hollow. They know that home -- the house and the people and the feelings -- is backwards. Home is twisted and wrong and not so safe as they thought. That is all they know.
My daughter, the stubborn one. My son, the angry one. My daughter, the overcompensator.
And my husband. My husband, the -- well, my husband.
My poor, poor babies.