Adult kids make you cry, too
Kids can make you cry at any age, really. Any parent knows this.
The Professor is the only of my kids who is sure she wants a child. The Artist would sooner swan dive into the fires of Mordor, and the Ambassador just kind of cringes a little. However, due to some medical concerns, we don’t think the Professor can carry a child to term. There are plenty of options open to her: if she winds up with a partner who can carry, they could decide to go that route. She could adopt. And as a true sign of the bond between sisters, The Artist has offered to carry a child for her.
First time I heard that was when the girls were around 14-15ish. Blew me away. Their bond was so close that the offer was made without hesitation, and has never wavered. It became one of those little testaments to the fact that I succeeded in raising my kids to have true, genuine closeness among the three of them. They will snark and fight, but if you mess with one, you need to be prepared for the wrath of the other two to rain down upon your hapless being.
Last night, the Professor, the Artist, and I were chatting while I baked and made some sugar scrub. We were joking about the Professor being forbidden to name a girl-child “Minerva”. The Artist laughed too, but said she wasn’t worried, as the Professor had chosen “Rhiannon” as any future daughter’s moniker. I was aware of this too, and therefore wasn’t actually concerned that a potential grandchild of mine would be saddled with McGonogall’s name, no matter how cool she was.
What I did know?
The Professor has also settled on a boy’s name. Christopher. The name of her big brother, whom I miscarried.
Damn kids knock me on my ass more times than I can count.
These sniffles? Watery eyes. Allergy season. It’s just allergy season.