The Kids Have To Be Alright Because They're You
In honor of my mini-me and our scary similarities.
A little background before we get started:
Originally published in Variety Pack: Issue IX (December 2022).
“Tell me about the dead baby again, Mom.”
My face scrunched up as I checked the traffic before pulling out of our driveway.
“You, you, you, you know… the baby in your belly before me,” she said. The three of us acting as if her occasional stuttering was normal because, well… it was.
“I really don’t want to talk about that. We’ve talked about that many times. The baby was very, very tiny and is with God now,” I said.
Her older brother took over and offered a heart-to-heart about the miracle and fragility of life and the importance of not taking those around you for granted. There were a few points that made me cringe, but it sufficed, especially with only three minutes before the school’s warning bell. Three minutes ago, they just fought about what snack to take to recess and what constituted a worthless Pokémon card.
I parked, so they could cross the school drive with the crossing guard and part ways to their fifth and second grade classes.
Big brother hurried out, not wanting to be late. He opened his sister’s door and sputtered a quick “love you, bye” to me. Little sister moved slower because she was either still deep in thought or nervous like she was most mornings.
“Hey, you’re going to have a good day. I love you and can’t wait to hear about everything you learn today.” I knew it would sound weird, but I felt the need to say it anyway. “You belong, okay?”
She nodded and walked with her brother. I always stayed and watched them, but I focused on her because she shuffled in her bright pink or pastel-hued sneakers and looked down the entire way to the second grade portables.
***
She was six pounds, eight ounces at birth, and then she suddenly stopped growing. The phrase “failure to thrive” appeared on her medical record without explanation for well over the first year of her life. Her progress barely registered on those growth chart print-outs you get during well visits. There were a few times her stats couldn’t even be plotted.
I was worried about whether she got enough milk, but her doctors reassured me that she was meeting all of her other developmental milestones.
“She’s just small,” they said. I kept telling myself that if we weren’t at the health department where all the other state insurance recipients were getting care, her case would be taken seriously.
Notoriously chunky babies, her dad (6’) and I (5’6”) attended seminary at the time and hoped our sacrifices and willingness to become equipped for God’s mission wouldn’t lead to a destitute life.
Well, it did sometimes, but this story isn’t about that or how we eventually left organized religion. This story is about her.
***
I know it sounds odd, but when we’re watching TV and snuggling, I trace the lines of her arms and legs and wonder if a coroner could accurately determine her age from her remains. The thought makes me choke, and I curse how millennial crime fascination culture has rewired my brain to view this as an appropriate way to analyze my child’s growth. Disgusting, I know.
Small yet limber, she climbs up the door frame like she’s trying out for American Ninja Warrior. She has two big brothers but needs zero protection. In their wild escapades, she dominates with her sass, stealth, and weaponized painted fingernails.
Grown men have started to notice her which makes me nervous. Their eyes linger and they interrupt our mom-daughter time to tell me/her/us how pretty she is. This embarrasses her. I want to lecture them about how smart, funny, and kind she is, but I don’t want to strike up conversation. So I tell my daughter this instead while she finishes her ice cream or talks to the animals behind plexiglass at PetSmart.
“You’re so cute,” people say to her.
“You are your mom’s mini-me.”
Yes, she is a copy of my younger self. I wish I had more pictures from my childhood to prove it because aside from her wispy, curly caramel-colored hair, the resemblance is quite frightening. As if in embryonic development, genetic creativity began with the locks on her head and then got lazy. “She’s basically her mom. Let’s call it a day.”
And yes, she’s me in personality, too. A quiet and shy child prone to oversentimentality and crying at the worst times.
She can get hypersensitive if she thinks she’s being watched, but when she’s really comfortable with her surroundings, she becomes a comedienne, her hands flying wildly in gestures, overcompensating for her stature. She’s also a philosopher, obsessed with words like basically, essentially, and literally. And when it comes to her speech, I still don’t know is she’s aware of her stuttering, in denial or if she doesn’t care.
Whenever I brought it up in the past, she looked at me as if I told her she had a condition where she would slowly be turning into a unicorn. Whatever the reason, I am grateful.
We are also carbon copies in our actions. It is a strange feeling to be living in constant déjà vu. The lines of memory blur when I wonder if a quirky stance, a response to a funny story, or a certain contorted face originated with her or me.
We can also move from one extreme to another. One minute she cocks her head to the side and delivers a smile that gets her anything, and a minute later, she yells that no one loves her, slams her bedroom door, and jumps on the bed or peels paint from the canary yellow walls to cope.
My husband and I have a joke that when she brings a brave soul home to meet us, we’ll give the full lowdown about what make her HER. This will need to be done in desperate spurts when she excuses herself to the bathroom.
“We can sneak you out of the window. We won’t be mad. She will eat you alive. Get out now!” Of course, my dad gave my now-husband a similar warning.
***
Hopping on the couch to find a spot under my arm-wing, she traces my tattoos and finger-combs my long dark tresses. She presses her face up against mine which slightly bothers me (which she knows) and says, “Don’t ever cut your hair, okay?”
“Got it. All the way to my butt.”
She laughs, bores herself further into my core, and whispers, “You’re the best mom in the universe.”
And I tell her, in all seriousness, which she doesn’t get, “No, you are.”