January 2020
My youngest has been running an orphanage in our home for over a year. She has claimed the entire Playroom as her territory. Nine children are in her care with 6 bunks set up, a couple babes have to share beds. Sometimes the children nap for a couple weeks to then suddenly caravan into the kitchen one day, fresh and needy. Our household is familiar with these kids; we know their histories, their ongoing stories, many birthdays have been celebrated- ages shifting in range from newborn-10.
In the overarching storyline, my child refers to herself as Mother of these children: Samantha, Kit, Beatrix, Grace, Cody and Violet (twins), Aylah, Belle, and my personal favorite, Jiggles.
Until yesterday in the car, I had never heard about a Father figure, not once.
Breaking the silence, from the backseat, my daughter said:
“You know my orphanage? It’s tiring. The Dad was gone for a long time as a Postman in another country. He came back, then left again to be gone for a really long time on a ship in the Navy… or maybe Coast Guard.”
I said, “I have never heard about a Dad. I’ve seen you do so much of the work on your own.”
In response, my little love said, “Yep. It is all me. And I am trying to figure out now if he will be a missionary or he is dead.”
oompa loompa doopity dooo…….
Clean and tidy. We barely knew him.
Not That Good Grief 