Transitions

I’m amidst some healthy ones with LFG but I don’t have to like it. I’d rather purge my distaste here than bring such things up to my mom. My mom, the one who would always scoop me up and love me and kiss me and rub my crew cut little head when I’d bump it. She, the one who would spank inanimate objects like my tricycle or wagon or whatever I fell off of or bumped into that hurt me, and admonish them to not hurt me—her baby—anymore. She, the baby of ten sturdy farm kids, who if I told her that I wasn’t completely reveling in these transitions, would call me a p_ _sy and tell me to buck up and keep going. 

I knew the day would come when LFG would declare that the Bitty Baby Changing Table and the Bitty Baby Bubble Bath should go to Goodwill. But I don’t have to like it. Little girls are supposed to like and want to keep...little girl things.

I said…I DON’T have to like it.

I knew the day would come when LFG would declare that the little house we painted together…you know…the one that held HER collection of 19^th century hand painted figures that WE collected together was no longer cool in her room. And that it too could go to Goodwill…and her figures stored away. But I don’t have to like it.

I knew the day would come when LFG would decide that building model cars with me was NOT cool and could I please move the ones from a shelf in her bedroom to somewhere—anywhere else. But I don’t have to like it. (And yes, that is a Cheetah—that LFG painted red and I put together—for US. She used to love looking at the Bill Thomas Cheetah pictures online. (I know this to be true...I'm NOT delusional. Shut up.)

I knew the day would come when LFG would ask me to just drop her off at dance and not watch her practice…“Come back and get me dad, and bring me something cold to drink.” But I don’t have to like it.

I knew the day would come when LFG would more precisely tell me what clothes NOT to wear when I pick her up… “Dad…DON’T wear those orange pants.” But I don’t have to like it.

“And Dad…DON’T wear the mustard-baby poop yellow cords either.”

I knew the day would come when LFG would do a one-eighty…hygiene-wise. I had seven good years of slumming it when WE deemed anything other than teeth brushing to be delightfully optional. SHE was the one who finally got me to shave the other week. And I didn’t mind that one actually.

I knew the day would come when LFG would offer mostly grunts and uh-huhs instead of full sentences. Only guttural signs of life when I, the ever so excited to talk to her on the phone—daddy who hasn’t touched his child in ten days gets his three minute audience. And you can bet your sweet ass I’m not liking this one—one bit.

My hallucination had all of these transitions manifesting with LFG at about age twelve. Why are we two years ahead of schedule? I’m never ahead of schedule and I don’t have to like it.

Onward. Embarrassingly blessed to have these as my obsessions.

ADG, II