Somewhere, and I don't remember it happening, a chunk of life broke free and floated away, like an iceberg calved into the sea. One minute it was there and part of the whole, the next it's a memory melting as it drifts off.
Riley, who holds my hand, asks me to rub his back in bed, wants nothing more than to play made-up games each day, that Riley suddenly closes the door to the bathroom. He wants his privacy.
If it seems a small thing, it may be, just one more step along a natural path. Healthy, even. But it's more than that. Before, he sat on the potty and wanted me to stay with him, perched on the edge of the bathtub so we could just talk about whatever was on his mind. The bathroom door is the first one closed, and it's the start of more to come. And I kick myself for all of the 'I'm too busy' nights when all I really was was too selfish and tired and wanted to just veg out. And I know my nature...those nights will continue, with me upstairs and him down, watching spongebob until bedtime.
I have a picture of Ri and Kylen on my mousepad. They're so small, and I can't remember what it was like to have them both in my arms comfortably. They'll never be that age. Neither will I. And I wonder what their memories will be of me as they grew up.
Dad sitting at the table in front of a laptop, maybe.
I suppose their memories will be whatever they are, and unquestioned, because it's their reality and they don't consider any other. Like when I was young and i'd have a sleepover at a friend's house, and I'd imagine myself living there, with the different food, rules, habits...it all seemed so foreign and uncomfortable I hated the thought of it and wanted to be back to the comfort of my own reality. It's the parents who know better and always question what they could do differently, and carry the guilt of choices made and not made.
I don't suppose I can--or should--stop the doors from closing. I just need to consider all the things I want to do before the next one shuts. And before Kylen realizes they exist at all.
