We sit here and talk about your day. New camp, new experience, new fears. And you whisper, Her name is Mimi, your smile shy. She cried at drop-off and I ask if she did better as the day went on. She was sad, you say. You were relieved you weren't the only one anxious about a new experience. You tell me about her long yellow hair and how she wears it pulled back in a ponytail. I ask if you and Mimi became friends.
Not yet, you say. You tell me that you're both getting used to each other first — in your minds. That tomorrow, perhaps, you will be ready to move forward — that tomorrow, perhaps, you'll be three quarters there. We'll smile then speak when it's time. I see how earnest you are and am impressed by your insight: this is how it can go, after all.
Then later, Mommy can I marry you one day?
No, sweetie. It doesn't work like that. And I tell you how one day when you grow up, you will meet someone who is just right for you, who you will love and who will love you too. And you'll get married and maybe have kids and Mom will be here (Down the street? Next door?) and I'll also be known as Grandma if I'm lucky.
But I'm worried. I think I'll lose you when that happens. Impossible, I say, and tell you about all the many types of love in the world and the love you have for your mom (and the love she has for you, dear Sam) is Forever.
Mommy is forever here loving you.