she's seven

Sometimes I watch her.

She's seven now, and full of dreams - the rigorous, grand and lingering dreams that a young mind can think of and hold on to.

She imagines herself a rockstar. She plays at cooking as I make thanksgiving pie. I watch her. Will she always have that sparkle in her eyes? Those toes are mine, I think. Her fingers are so deft, questing for lost small toys my clumsy hands might shove in to cracks.

"Momma?" She says, gushing as we listen to music.
"My love?"
"I want to be a rock star. Like papa on the band Ghost."
"Do it."
"Really??"
"Of course babe. You'll have to practice lots!"
"Yeah!!"
She furiously air guitars through Ghost songs, envisioning herself on stage.

She jumps and gyrates. With the vigor I know I've lost. Or she settles in with much loved markers. Detailed drawings and careful notes, given to each of us. She doesn't realize yet that I save each one, consigned to a pile in my desk. I read each one. Her focus reminds me of her father. The way her bends to his tasks when the mood takes him.

I look back and watch her, as she leads my youngest, age three, in some nameless game of hiding in the too small apartment we live in, where they test its capacity every day. Feet thundering, to my dismay. How did we come to know you, my love?

I carried her, and birthed her amidst confusion and terror. We had such a rough start. Her toddler years were terrible. I had no idea what to do. I was undiagnosed, untreated and savagely wild. I look back a shudder at this darker times.

But here she is.

Seven. Well rounded. Full of emotions. They are so big! Stomping feet and clenched fists. Slamming doors. Hugs, kisses and constant refrains of, "Momma, I love you!" Countless drawn hearts full of stripes. You're just now making up corny jokes. You think farts are funny still. Because of course they are.

How did we get so lucky?

I love her so. I would kill anyone who might harm her. I let her walk to the bus stop alone. She's thriving despite my mental shortcomings lately.

Hoping for the best, I want to give her anything, tempered with grounding. Rules she'll moan about. I can only hope later, she looks back and says, "Momma.. you were mean. But in a good way. I love you."

How did we get this special person in our lives? I can't imagine how.

as posted here:

https://www.reddit.com/r/NoStupidQuestions/comments/a02dyr/do_parents_sometimes_disassociate_and_stare_at/