We’ve been talking again about how babies are made. Every time I repeat the narrative of our bodies, I falter. I am no longer convinced of the improbably mechanics of it myself, that something so liquid, so fleeting could result in the comparative permanence and materiality of hard bone and tooth, in individual strands of hair, or the stuffed internal stockings and tracts, her looping intestines and gullet and so forth.
‘Are you going to have babies one day?’ I ask her, and not just for entertainment value. I always have this feeling that she knows her own path, that she can see into her own future. When she answers these questions I hang on to her every word.
She nods. ‘When I’m you.’
On some level, I believe everything she tells me - even that one day she might grow up and become me.
It reminds me of our heated discussion last night when she told me how she's going to marry Daddy one day (she will be the princess he will be the King - like Sapsorrow). I pointed out that I was already married to Daddy. When she got upset I quickly backpedalled. We came to a compromise, she can marry Daddy if I can go and live in the forest. I'm actually quite looking forward to it.