dear zoe

"oh zoe my zoe, if you weren't so much you, i would never know me;
oh zoe my zoe, i love you so much may you always be free."

that was the song i've sung to you for a long time. since you were small, when things seemed simpler- when you were still asleep.

right now you are outside feeding the turtles.  you are all revved up, laughing loudly, fake sneezing loudly, probably flapping.  i don't know what is funny- but i know the pattern.  you've swung from rage to hysterical- both indicators that you 'engine' is too high.

you just finished telling me that you hate me.  that i'm a betrayer, the worst mother ever, that you want to kick me and bite me, that you want to throw the books you see beside you. this is because i cliped your toenails.  you can't see the extreme- you only feel it.

you will be 13 this summer and i'm tired.  we've been walking this road together for a long time.  the last 3 years have felt the weight of twice the first 9 years.  what i thought would be hard- has been okay.  what i never expected, has been almost impossibly hard.

since your friend moved, that switch has been flicked- that button pushed- that has sent you back to that place we were.   you spend a lot of time- stuck.  your reactions to small things are absurdly big.  you make mount everest out of molehills.

as you get older, it gets scarier.  i worry about how you will handle life?  school? will you ever live independently? will i ever be able to really relax? to live in a place with out having the rug pulled out from under me again and again?

maybe the trick is to not have a rug.  to stand firmly on our concrete floors and feel the cool and hardness.  to not attempt to make things warm and comfortable- to learn to live with these smooth red floors. the concrete of our life. maybe there will be less chance of us falling.  so falling might hurt more- but we'll be used to it- we won't expect anything else. 

tomorrow you are going to spend a day at the school you'll go to next year.  yes, i'll admit it, i'm mildly terrified- perhaps you are too.  maybe that is why you're having a hard day.  maybe you'll surprise me, maybe i won't have to watch you fall to bits- (as my memory knaws at me). 

for now, i'll roll up the rugs.  i'll stand firm on the floor. i'll hold your hand.

then one day, probably many years down the road, when our feet are worn, when we don't remember the softness of wool, we'll be able to lay them down again- together.