Why did you teach them to recognize me? Because I can deal with them not remembering me, I really can, watch them stare past me blankly when someone asks, "and who's that?," let them be squirmy and upset when I carry them, brush it off when they cry for no reason, ignore it if they refuse to play patty-cake or to identify their respective noses.
But when somehow, after four hours of chasing them around on the floor, something clicks and one of them sees me from across the room as if for the first time, yells "Ka-ay" and toddles over to attach himself to my legs, that is when I cannot deal, because that is the exact moment when they break my heart. Again.
And why do you let me even complain, how infrequently I see them?
Why does their mother, who inadvertently committed herself to a crazily difficult life times two, still make a point to give everyone else awesome Christmas presents?
And why her? Why not someone else?
Well? Do you have any answers for me, you son-of-a-virgin-bitch? No?
I thought as much.
