What Goes Around, Comes Around

Sometimes Lily says things that cause me to shiver in recognition, recognition of a former self I can no longer recall so well on my own. Today, she said to me, with no trigger I could identify, "Mama, I don't want to be a grown-up. I want to stay a kid forever." I couldn't even speak for a moment.

"I know what you mean," I said, finally, not sitting next to her on the subway at all but in my childhood bedroom on the night of December 10th, watching the minute hand on the clock draw closer to 12. When this happened, I had decided, and it was my tenth birthday, my childhood was officially over. Double digits. The beginning of the end. I curled up under the covers and wept.

Lily thought my response was funny. She giggled. "You don't know what I mean, silly," she said. "You're a grown-up."

"I was a kid once, too," I said.

"And did you want to stay a kid?" I thought about how to answer this. The last thing I want is to pass on my own neuroses in ways that are not genetic and therefore less avoidable. But I didn't want to lie. It was a real question that deserved a real answer.

"Sometimes," I said. Her eyes were wide and serious.

"But do you right now? Wish you were still a kid." Again, I thought. It had been a long day. We were all hot and tired and cranky, and we had dinner and bath-time and bed on the agenda, a series of events that when done solo leaves me depleted at best.

"Yes," I said. She nodded, somberly.

We rode the rest of the way in silence. We both had a lot to think about.