Enough For Two…

Little girls sometimes, don’t understand adult concepts.  I say sometimes, because every once in a while her eyes will convey the incredible knowledge she is holding inside and it both frightens and enthralls me.

We met one of her friends for a playdate tonight.  For those of you who are not parents, playdates are where parents allow children to play while we share all the sordid details of our lives and quietly drink out of flasks.  Unfortunately, this wasn’t that type of playdate.

Upon picking the girls up from their grueling schedule of indoor jungle gyms and arts and crafts we walked behind our preschoolers and my daughter’s voice chirped, “My daddy is dead.”  Children of this age barely grasp the concept of death, let alone an idea that something forever, (longer than an entire Christmas away,) could happen in their lives.

Ava’s father is not dead, in fact- I think by now he’s probably happily married and starting a family of his own.  How do you explain to a preschooler that a very adult decision was made and instead of wishing a world of arguments, frustration and child support- I wished a strong mother and daughter combo who would rise above the noise of immaturity and senseless arguments about drop-offs and pick-ups.  I have never regretted my decision, though I’ve weighed it around in my head with the other lofty choices rest when I’m too busy to bother thinking about them.  In all respects, I’ll never badmouth the man who’s let me raise my child and hold her at each midnight of a holiday, or wake up each morning knowing she was mine- and I was hers.  I’ve often thought of writing him a thank you letter, because his sperm was clearly the coolest sperm in the entire universe because it brought me, her.

We drove home after our date today and I pulled down the rearview mirror and looked at the red-haired beauty who was slowly kicking her feet and singing a rendition of Annie’s “Tomorrow.”  I watched her eyes meet mine as she looked intently when I said, “Tell me about why you want to tell people that you think your daddy is dead.”  She cocked her head to the side and looked outside.  Not a moment later she looked at me and softly spoke, “Because he’s not here.”

In every moment of parenting, when your hand touches your swollen stomach, or the tiny, curled, fingers of the largest piece of your heart you’ve ever held: In every moment you imagine and prepare for what you say next.

We’ve had the talk, (THE TALK,) many times.  I’ve always said it like this:

“Some families have a mommy, and some just a daddy, other families have an aunt, or a grandpa or two daddies or mommies and parakeets. But the lucky ones- just the few that did something right in their past lives, get a family with a grandma and a grandpa and two godfathers and an Auntie and cousins and a mommy- who every night saves all her wishes for just one more day with the most incredible little girl the world has ever seen.  That’s why God gave me, YOU. Because he knew I was ready, and I could handle all your wonderfulness, and silliness and fears.  He knew you could handle my angries, too….”

That’s about where she cut me off and said, “It’s okay, Mom.”  There was a sparkle in her eye that told me for the moment- a four year old’s wisdom in pacifying her mother’s verbal love tantrum meant more than understanding why life wasn’t always fair, or why her tiny mind couldn’t grasp the idea of “different,” or “justified,” yet.  I watched as she continued the feet kicks and the song again and I asked her if she would feel better with a daddy.  She smiled and just kept singing.

When she’s older, I’ll look into her eyes the same and cup her chin in my hands and nose kiss her to the heavens while she swats my face away, surely.  If it’s possible to give her enough love for an entire army of fathers- I have it. And somehow? Deep down, inside- where the insecurities plague my mind: I know she gets this.

Love conquers all.