Running With Scissors

I used to refuse to sleep without my mom or dad, as an infant and on into late toddlerhood.  It wasn't until I started kindergarten and my youngest, fattest brother Lima came around that I ventured to sleep in my own bed on a regular basis.

I shared a room with my other brother, Sheikh, until I developed more concrete ideas of gender and affirmed my femininity with what my brother thought were offensive girlie decorations like lavender haired trolls, Lisa Simpson, and Care Bears.  So I kicked his ass out and got my own room.

But throughout my life, my parents' room has been a kind of castle, getaway, something better than the rest of the house.  For one, other than the living room, the biggest television was always located in Mommy and Daddy's room.  Secondly, the huge comfortable bed and the fact that it was always clean made for a good spot to clear your head and take long naps.

And now, as a grown up, five months away from having my first baby, I wonder what room he or she will find solace in.  What room he'll have his most poignant memories in.  What room's walls she'll write her name on when she first learns to write.

I am about to move in with his or her father in July.  I am slightly preoccupied with what the space in our bedroom is going to look like.  I need it to be big with enough room to construct a kind of corner space for baby and me to play, look at each other, speak Krio and the moderate Temne I know, and tell him or her all I know and everything about me.  I need a space to create the most comfortable space between me and the baby.

There is an immeasurable distance between Marie and I.  Sometimes when she is near, I try to engage her eye contact and I look for something in her eyes that reminds me of myself.  I look for something that looks familiar, comfortable.  The truth is, I have no idea what my mother's gaze really looks like.  I can't recall what's in her eyes or behind them. 

We don't really look at each other, I don't think.  We look at some archetype of each other, some shadow of something or someone else.  That's the distance.  But in that distance, there is a willful longing, like an animal and some cub unexpectedly separated by vast amounts of water.  She looks towards me wishing to bring me near and I look towards her wishing to know her.  And thus, I have spent all my life wading in treacherous waters, to be near her so as to know her.  Alas, I am tired of swimming.  But I'll at least stay in water, cutting the distance until she can meet me too.

This baby has to know me.  I cannot be a mystery to her.  I cannot be unavailable to him. 

I am 24 now.  Even now, when I go home and I walk into the office or the living (the only 2 places my Daddy ever is until he goes to sleep in his room), his eyes still light up with the same excitement I've noticed since I first learned to call him Daddy.  Behind his eyes, I know myself to be the most amazing thing in the world, even if only he thinks so.

When she or he comes in the room, my eyes will always light up, and she or he will know me well enough to recognize that shine.