One

The twins are one. No, I don't mean they have been the victims of a gruesome experiment in creating a Frankenzen, which may win me either a Nobel or a ten-stretch. They are a year old. They're less excited about it than we are, but they like the presents.

The temptation when you reach a milestone with a child (or children) is to say, well, that wasn't so bad. After all, they have survived. Many children do not. I will never forget the sound of a mother crying in Bubaque, her infant lost to something that would have cost a couple of dollars to vaccinate, if vaccines were available in Guinea-Bissau. And they are beautiful children. Much more beautiful than yours. Face it. Yours do not have angel faces. Yours do not have Zenita's fluffy blond curls or Naughtyman's cheeky grin. Yours do not laugh their heads off when you play dinosaurs with them. Yours do not shout out "Daddy" when you first see them in the AM (okay, okay, so she says "daddoo" when she sees the cleaner, grandparents, nextdoor neighbours and sometimes birds, but there's just that hint of a "y" about it when it's me). And your kids do not have my love to sustain them. They do not quieten when they are screaming, just because they can feel me next to them. They do not hear how gentle my big voice can be, the last thing they hear before they sleep.

The twins do not know that today is any different from any other day. They do not know that the comfort and joy that their lives bring can be leached out by life, that their softness can be hardened by the inconsiderate, loveless fools who some days seem to spend their time in doing nothing but finding ways to hurt one another. They do not need to know any of that. They are caught up in being; being one on a fresh, cold blue-sky day, warm in their mother's arms, safe from harm.

posted by Dr Zen @ 9:04 am