Their round faces start clear, clear and innocent, and open to everything (and right now, everything is Mama). Then, as if in slow motion, their faces elongate and blur. Pushed farther away, less open, too young to understand, old enough to worry. Pushed farther away, speeding up, slowing down, stopping, then pulled back closer until they’re too close to focus. Until we can’t see anything.
Babies on swings. And their mothers are talking and crying. So and so is nine months old (she turns and fakes a smile at the baby), and he’s already walking. So and so is only five months old, and she rolled over for the first time yesterday. So and so - can you believe it? - is a year now, and this morning she was eating Cheerios, and she looked at me and said "Mama, me wubs you." Awww...
Figuring out how to reconcile the plural, per Derrida. Motherhood: you in me, me in you, him in you, and us in you. We see ourselves in them every day. They start clear and innocent; we do, too. As children, as parents. That changes, they do, we do. But they stay in us, and we stay in them. And we will still be there when we’re gone. And they will still be here when they're gone.
Anamnesis: It remains to come. The end of one life, the beginning of another.
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