Me: I’m sorry, baby. But she gets to be what she wants.
Noodle: If our brother were alive, he’d be the prince.
Me: Yeah, maybe.
Noodle: And there would be more of us to play when we play Crazy 8’s.
Me: Yes.
Noodle: It’s not fair.
Me: (Thinking a: big brother might actually be more inclined to make her be the slave in the dungeon in his own masochistic play than be her prince, and b: if he was alive, she would never have been born, instead I simply say…)
Nope.
(Because it isn’t, really)
—-
In related news, at the Christmas dinner table…
Chicken Little to Grandpa (sadly): Our brother died.
Grandpa: I heard.
Little: He was born too late.
Grandpa (lovingly): I know, I heard.
…and here all along I’d been thinking that I was the one born too late. Am I the only child of the 70s who wished she was born in time to enjoy the freewheeling 60s?
I always wanted a big brother, too.
Anyway.
This all makes me think about how pining away for the impossible brings with it a powerful element of fantasy. You can project whatever you want onto that blank slate. Kind of like writing a novel. Hmmm….
