Motes PlayedA Post-Self Story

Milestones of Memory

Motes — 2382

I love you both so much!

There is a hypothetical me that grows up, just like you say, I think! There is a me who plays out a coming of age in real time. Or perhaps not real time; perhaps this me turns a year into a decade, spending approximately 3650 days as a seven year old, and then that many again as an eight year old. Perhaps she spends 120 years playing out this little pageant, growing up with an aching slowness for those who live phys-side, and yet a maturation that is still over far too soon for those of us here.

If there is joy to be found everywhere and revelry in everything, then doubtless we would be the ones to find it! We are past masters at revelry and connoisseurs of joy. We would find ways to toy with the feelings of aging, of the slow introduction of hormones in flux, the gentle addition of sexuality, the waves and waves of changes that come through the years.

There are joys everywhere and revelry in everything, and it is fractally deep: we can zoom in more and more and more to see room for even more exploration.

How much do we act out puberty? Do we play out my first menstrual cycle? The inescapable rush of attraction? Learning to masturbate?

And socially? What if those interactions? Puppy love? Dating? Breaking up?

How much do we engage with school? There are sims for such — loads and loads of them! — and so, do you two dig into each and agonize about where to send your Dot, as any parent might? Do you see me to the bus and attend every graduation?

And yes, how do we engage with me leaving the nest? Do we have a tearful farewell and months of me coming back to visit every weekend? Or do we all lean into a sense of relief? Do you daydream about what you will do when you no longer have a bratty teenager running around? Do I yearn for freedom?

We could do all of these things and more, and we could find joy and revelry in each! I trust us, of all people, to do that.

But we do not. Instead whenever this topic comes up, we all realize that we are too terrified of the changes it would wreak. I would stop fitting in your lap, Bee — do you remember when we stopped fitting in Mom’s? When we used to lounge on her like I lounge on you and beg her to play with our hair, and one day she laughed and gently scooted us to the side and said, “God, you are getting far too big for that, Little Miss Michelle”? Imagine if Little Miss Michelle once more became seven; both her and Mom would have those memories of that ending, and re-engaging with that would be fraught with the weight of them.

Instead of toying with a facsimile of something everyone must go through phys-side, instead of playing such a thing out, we do something that is impossible back there. We do something new. We do what only cladists can do. We refine what it means to have this dynamic and seek new joys within this lovely space. We live through a hundred seventh birthdays, and look forward to a hundred more!

I do not think I will ever grow up. I would stop fitting in your lap and spend years unable to. How would we ever go back without being changed in some essential way? We would lose all that we feel now.

What do you feel, Bee, when I doze against your front after begging you to pet me? What do you feel when I barely even wake up as you finally scoot me over to the side and go grab my blanket to tuck me in on the couch? Do you feel peace? Do you feel adoration? Do you feel love overwhelming?

And what do you feel, Ma, when Bee and I fight? What do you feel when we bicker or get snippy with each other? What does it feel like to know that these people who are essentially you in so many ways, who came from you so long ago, love each other so dearly and yet can still be at each other’s throats? Do you ache?

You know what I feel? Giddiness. Giddiness and love. To me, it all feels like love. Every single moment, every little morsel of interaction feels like love.

So no, I do not think I will grow up. I have so much more fun to have! I have so much more joy to savor! And I will savor, and savor.