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Milestones of Memory
Dot, I have been thinking while we sit here on the couch, you in my lap, dozing against my front, snoring softly as I brush my fingers through your fur. I have been thinking that you have spent more than a century now seven years old. That is one hundred seventh birthdays. Oh, sure, you have had a few twelfths, and once you even had a fifth, but no matter what, you have had more than your fair share of seventh birthdays.
I have been thinking, though — and this is between you and me — what if you grew up?
Oh, I could never ask you to do such a thing. I could never ask you to fundamentally change who you are. I love you far too much to ever do such a thing.
But what if, one year, you decided that you would have one last seventh birthday? Would we make it a big bash? Would we treat it as yet another of your seventh birthdays, even if we knew it was the final one?
And then, the next year, you would have an eighth birthday. You would never again, be seven.
And when you turn nine, what then? Would you remember what it is like to be seven? I mean, of course you would, but would you remember how you felt? Would you be able to feel seven again?
And ten! Finally, you would have that shiny second digit in your age. Perhaps we would throw a big bash for such a big girl.
But eleven? Perhaps that second digit no longer seems quite so shiny after a year.
And twelve: would you be precocious, do you think? Would you start thinking of boys and of girls and of all sorts of pretty people? Would you start doodling hearts in your notebooks? Would you dream of kisses?
And thirteen! Finally, the first teenage year. Would you dream yet more about yet more than just kisses?
At fourteen, would you push back against your ma and I? Would you claim more space, as is your right? Would, when you and I fight — as we do even now — say in a moment of rage or despair, "I hate you"? Would you then come to me an hour later, tearful, and apologize, saying "I am sorry, Bee. I love you, I never meant to hurt you"?
When you turn fifteen, would you start sneaking out at night? Would you tiptoe past our room and muffle the latching of the door so as not to wake us? We would already be awake, we would already know, but this is the life of a fifteen year old.
Perhaps you would beg me to teach you how to drive. Perhaps you and I would take the car out and noodle around the neighborhood — slowly, now! — as you learn the pedals, the mirrors, the signals. Perhaps you would fall in love with it as I have.
And if so, when you turn sixteen — sweet sixteen! — would we get you a car for your birthday? Would you drag me by the paw to the department of licensing and say proudly, "I have turned sixteen, I am ready to take the test!"? Of course, you would pass with flying colors; I taught you, after all.
When you turn seventeen, would you ask us if you could bring some boy or girl or other pretty person over for dinner to meet us? Would you still be in school? Would you be studying for your entrance exams?
You could go back, you know. Yes, we have our degree in performing arts education, but you could get a degree in visual arts to go with it. You paint so beautifully, but there is always more to learn.
But when you turn eighteen, would you leave us, your ma and I? Would you leave this house on a hill? Would we sit in our empty nest and marvel at the silence?
Would we write to you, send you messages, saying, "Motes, we miss you! It has been three months since we have seen you last! We love you. When will you be coming home?"
And suppose at the end, as you ever do, you say, "This form has begun to itch. This life and identity no longer fits. I am going back to being seven years old", what would all these milestones of memory mean?
What would it mean that you had left your ma and I in an empty and silent house?
What would it mean that you had proudly brought home some boy or girl or other pretty person for us to meet?
What would it mean that we had gotten you a car for your sweet sixteen? What would it mean that I had taught you to drive?
What would it mean that you had looked at me with anguish, tears streaming down your face, and apologized for telling me that you hated me?
What would it mean that you dreamed of yet more than kisses? What would it mean that you had dreamed of them in the first place?
What would it mean that that second digit in your age had stopped feeling quite so shiny? What would it mean that it had felt shiny in the first place?
What would it mean that you had turned nine? Had turned eight?
What would it mean that you had had one last seventh birthday, and were now seven once more?
I would never ask you to grow up, to change who you are. I love you too much.
I could never ask you to grow up, Dot. I am too afraid. I am afraid that, were you to give this little thought experiment a go, some essential part of you would, in the end, grow up.
I am afraid that you would no longer fit in my lap, dozing against my front, snoring quietly as I brush my fingers through your fur.
Continues in comments.
no subject
What a treat to wake up to, my muse. Our Dot has ever oscillated between Big and Little, and every spot inbetween, but I had never considered that she might play out this process of growing older.
I had certainly never considered her as a teenager.
Will I, one frustrated evening, say some terrible thing of her to you? Will you look at me with that deadly pained gaze of yours? The one that makes my heart ache? Will you look to me in shock and hurt and ask, "Why would you say such a thing? She is just a kid!"
And when she brings home some pretty person for dinner and I catch them snogging it up in her bedroom, will I scowl? Will I bring them cookies or chips or some other snack, pretending I have seen nothing? Will I make a point of creaking that floorboard as I pass by her door, if only to give them the thrill of being caught?
Will I, when she is leaving for a date, cross my arms and give her new datefriend a stern gaze from the door?
What will you and I say when she is old enough to begin experimenting with her body? Will we say that she is too young, that she must wait until she is an adult? Will we give her rules? "No boys overnight!" What of Alexei, her childhood friend? What of the girls? She is no stranger to their lips, their fingers, yes? And the enbies? God knows the Bălans worked their charm on us well enough, yes? Is she never to have a friend stay over from ages 12 through 18? Six years of isolation because we are not ready for her to start learning about her own body on her own terms with people her own age?
Or will we shrug and laugh quietly to one another? "That girl has a century of inhibition to work out! Let her do as girls must do at such an age." Will we make excuses to be out of the house for dates of our own? Will we tell her we will not return until dawn? Might I give her a silent wink and a gesture reminding her to at least wrap up if she is going to fool around?
She is an Odist, after all. She is going to fool around. The question is whether she will feel safe talking to us about it afterward.
Whether she will feel safe talking to us about it when it goes terribly wrong.
God, I really hope she stays seven forever. I cannot bear the thought of our Dot leaving the nest. I could cry just thinking about it.
no subject
I love you both so much!
There is a hypothetical me that grows up, just like you say, I think! There is a me who plays out a coming of age in real time. Or perhaps not real time; perhaps this me turns a year into a decade, spending approximately 3650 days as a seven year old, and then that many again as an eight year old. Perhaps she spends 120 years playing out this little pageant, growing up with an aching slowness for those who live phys-side, and yet a maturation that is still over far too soon for those of us here.
If there is joy to be found everywhere and revelry in everything, then doubtless we would be the ones to find it! We are past masters at revelry and connoisseurs of joy. We would find ways to toy with the feelings of aging, of the slow introduction of hormones in flux, the gentle addition of sexuality, the waves and waves of changes that come through the years.
There are joys everywhere and revelry in everything, and it is fractally deep: we can zoom in more and more and more to see room for even more exploration.
How much do we act out puberty? Do we play out my first menstrual cycle? The inescapable rush of attraction? Learning to masturbate?
And socially? What if those interactions? Puppy love? Dating? Breaking up?
How much do we engage with school? There are sims for such — loads and loads of them! — and so, do you two dig into each and agonize about where to send your Dot, as any parent might? Do you see me to the bus and attend every graduation?
And yes, how do we engage with me leaving the nest? Do we have a tearful farewell and months of me coming back to visit every weekend? Or do we all lean into a sense of relief? Do you daydream about what you will do when you no longer have a bratty teenager running around? Do I yearn for freedom?
We could do all of these things and more, and we could find joy and revelry in each! I trust us, of all people, to do that.
But we do not. Instead whenever this topic comes up, we all realize that we are too terrified of the changes it would wreak. I would stop fitting in your lap, Bee — do you remember when we stopped fitting in Mom's? When we used to lounge on her like I lounge on you and beg her to play with our hair, and one day she laughed and gently scooted us to the side and said, "God, you are getting far too big for that, Little Miss Michelle"? Imagine if Little Miss Michelle once more became seven; both her and Mom would have those memories of that ending, and re-engaging with that would be fraught with the weight of them.
Instead of toying with a facsimile of something everyone must go through phys-side, instead of playing such a thing out, we do something that is impossible back there. We do something new. We do what only cladists can do. We refine what it means to have this dynamic and seek new joys within this lovely space. We live through a hundred seventh birthdays, and look forward to a hundred more!
I do not think I will ever grow up. I would stop fitting in your lap and spend years unable to. How would we ever go back without being changed in some essential way? We would lose all that we feel now.
What do you feel, Bee, when I doze against your front after begging you to pet me? What do you feel when I barely even wake up as you finally scoot me over to the side and go grab my blanket to tuck me in on the couch? Do you feel peace? Do you feel adoration? Do you feel love overwhelming?
And what do you feel, Ma, when Bee and I fight? What do you feel when we bicker or get snippy with each other? What does it feel like to know that these people who are essentially you in so many ways, who came from you so long ago, love each other so dearly and yet can still be at each other's throats? Do you ache?
You know what I feel? Giddiness. Giddiness and love. To me, it all feels like love. Every single moment, every little morsel of interaction feels like love.
So no, I do not think I will grow up. I have so much more fun to have! I have so much more joy to savor! And I will savor, and savor.