Voice

As much as I enjoy being a parent, there is a special bond between the children in my life I am not directly responsible for.  For me, it is my godchildren, Max (now 12) and Laurel (now 10).    Max was always a cuddly child, even when my own daughter entered her teen years and didn’t want to hug mommy anymore.  Laurel and Max were still up for sitting in my lap and reading when my daughter was tuning me out in favor of her iPod.  Max, Laurel, and I would make up stories and songs.  Some famous ones were “The Bee Farmer” about fairies who milked bees instead of cows and the blueberry song.

               

 Blueberries, blueberries

 Eat a bunch of blueberries.

 If you eat some blueberries,

Your poo will then turn blue!

All this was met by eye rolls by my daughter.  “Really, Mom?  Really?” was all I got from her.

Since the kids live in Maine and I live in New York, I don’t get to see them more than two or three times a year.  They are always so much bigger, cuter, funnier. 

But one summer, when Max was nearly 9 and Laurel was almost 7, I noticed a change in Max.  

Suddenly, he was less cuddly, less interested in, well, me.  I think I even caught an eye roll or two.  I miss him.

I stayed with them during my MFA residencies in Maine, and so I would get to see them in teh mornings.  One morning, as I was leaving the house, Laurel threw herself into my arms. She gave me a fierce hug and whispered in my ear, “I’m the only one who still likes it when you sing.”

It wasn’t much, but for now, I’ll take it.