Elsewither

I did not understand my putrid disposition towards children until my mid-20s. As a child, I did not like them despite them being my equals. As a teenager, I was never around them. Therefore, out of sight, out of mind. In my budding 20s, I hated them. I simply did not understand children because I was never authorized to be one. And by that time, the notion of innocence was a fable. The first time I was exposed to a baby was when my brother, eight years my senior, had his son. My nephew softened my heart a lot. A year and a half or so later, so did my niece. 

If I were ever to have a child. I would want it to be a daughter, arguably the more “challenging” gender out of the bunch. I began to desire a daughter when I desperately needed my mom. I want a daughter to let her know that she will never be alone, not on this God-green earth. I want to be her paladin. She will survey my cry and pick up on my latent neuroticism and insecurity. But what is a woman in her truth without these three fundamental things? I would want my daughter to know that when it ever came down to her, she was okay. Yeah. In my eyes, she would be able to get away with murder. First-degree, premeditated, unjustified. I would help her hide, burn, or bury the body. I would get my hands, feet, and soul dirty for my daughter. Or I would like to think that I would. 

Interestingly enough, I would like my daughter to acquire my poetic malady but to go no lower than the degree of self-regulation. I want my daughter to wear the malady like her signature perfume. These women have a beauty in their eyes that is intoxicating. Doe-eyed. Sparkly. I want my daughter to amass my debility because I want to know what it feels like to love someone like me. As gorgeous as me. My daughter would “rock it” way better than I ever imagined.

However, I would not allow my daughter to reach the level of pollution that I am. I would not want my daughter to appear 35 when she is only 19. I would not want her seeking love and validation at a psychiatric hospital. Or within the depths of a man with a baby on the way. Or amongst the grassland of fully blossomed, emotionally unavailable men. But boy, are those blossoms pretty, but they die rather quickly. No, I would not want that for her. I did not like it for myself. My mom ultimately did not fail as a mother. She did the best she knew how. Unfortunately, at a young age, I knew that the love I so desperately craved would not come from her. So I then began a journey of seeking to find it in unconventional shadows and dreams.

Nonetheless, I know this daughter that I fantasize about has to start with her relationship with her dad. Or perhaps my relationship with him. However, in this alternate reality… there is no dad? This daughter that I frequently think about always acquired my maiden name. There is no partner, and there is no patriarch of the household. In this alternate reality, my daughter does not care to ask or know about her father. In this alternate reality, there is no scenario where I have to construct an age-appropriate story on why “Daddy is not in the picture.” In this alternate reality, my daughter knows without needing to. In this alternate reality, it is just me and my daughter. My daughter and me. Being women and beautiful together. Of course, if I think of a father figure for my daughter, he would be tall, dark, and handsome, with a smidgen of mystery and poignancy himself. However, he wears his prettier more than I could ever. Her father would love me, flaws and all, and accept me for who I was.

No, even someone like me is not immune to that delusion. 

And this sort of delusion is what I do not want to rub off on her. My daughter. The daughter that I wish to have but do not deserve.

Yet.