You have a kid. Or maybe two. Or, dreadful breeder that you are, maybe three. Later in life they come, one and then another in quick succession. And then a third after a breather. You fall in love with your soul mate far too late in life to have more. So you stop. And you raise the three.
You don’t think you’re raising them differently, but, perhaps, you are. As one turns from gregarious to introverted, but amazingly intelligent and sharp-witted and akin to who you would like to be from the depths of your soul. And another turns from an extremely quiet one to the most gregarious of them all, one who puts herself out there for others to see: dancing and singing and being so damn joyful. And the third, who fastened onto you for the first 18 months, chucks you over to be a mirror image of his dad. Except for the foul-mouth and even fouler temple.
And they grow and grow and grow. And soon they will be gone. And you sit outside on an unbelievably warm winter’s day, and you realize, “It’s all a fuckin’ crap shoot.” They are who they are. They will be who they will be. I might hope, but I can do very little now to make anything happen for them. It’s time they make it happen for themselves.