Sometimes I forget.
Her sentences roll off her tongue like water.
She looks deep into my eyes and smiles and laughs.
Maybe They are wrong
Maybe we’re all overreacting.
Then I read some list.
In some magazine or book.
Telling me what she should do.
Who she should be.
Its intent is to educate.
But to me, it’s a prison sentence.
I hear two children playing pretend.
I’m the mommy and you’re the daddy,
While she screams.
Because she is too literal, too precise.
She is wrapped up in her own logic.
I am not the mommy and you are not the daddy.
She screams when the vacuum leaves its cave.
Or when the broom sweeps away her crumbs.
She screams while the water rushes.
When the wind howls.
She screams and she screams and she screams.
I am forced to remember.
She wont hit those milestones on that list
When They say she should.
She’s not like those children playing pretend.
I am the mommy and you are the daddy.
She is Not Otherwise Specified.
This is not how I imagined.
There are no tea parties.
No playing house.
I am not the mommy and you are not the daddy.
There are no dance recitals in pink tutus
With video recorders and rounds of applause.
Sometimes it makes me cry.
And he cries, too.
And after the pity party
We remember.
I remember.
She is ours.
She is just as He intended.
She is who she is and she is ours.
She can do this.
We can do this.
We’ve only just begun.
