Animals

On the beach, changing out of her wet swimsuit, looking for a laugh, she bent over, spread her butt cheeks apart with her hands, and wiggled her sandy bum.

The man with the sunburned face turned away.

“Oh god!” he grumbled.

“Honey! Stop that,” I said.

“Why, Mom?” she said.

~ ~ ~ 

Because you are not a little girl anymore. You are in second grade. You know how to add, subtract, and multiply numbers. You know the difference between lava and magma. You know how the seasons work, how the moon moves the tides, to never turn your back on the ocean. You know you could drown if the waves get you. Because you are a little girl.

Because you just lost your top two baby teeth, and your smile is still gummy. Your lips are still bright pink. Your nose is still small. Your ears are still unholed. Your birthmarks are still cute. Your skin is so smooth, your eyes are so bright, your hair is so knotty.

Because your least favorite color is red because it reminds you of blood and death and dying and you don’t want to dwell on things like blood and death and dying. Because you are beautiful, and not yet beautiful. Because you don’t know the difference. Because your beauty is a weapon others will use for you, against you. Because you don’t yet know beauty is a weapon. Because you don’t like to think about things like blood and death and dying. 

Because humans are animals—and sometimes you are behind my back, where I can’t see you—and he could hurt you if he wanted to. He could hurt you even if he didn’t want to. He could hurt someone else who might try to stop him from hurting you. Because animals get hurt.

Because I let the doctors speed up your exit when you stopped growing inside my belly. Because I wanted you to live in the world and not die inside my ocean. Because you had had enough of my body. Because you were ready to leave me.

Because I wanted to keep you alive when your tongue was tied and your lip was tied and you would suck and suck and nothing would come out. Because you were not born with a mouth that could get what it needed and you’d fall asleep trying. I’d watch your eyes move frantically underneath your paper-thin eyelids. I’d kiss your furry head and wish you a good sleep despite an empty stomach. Because I wanted to keep you alive. Because I wanted you to live.

Because now my boobs are a novelty. You grab my breast in your tiny hand and squeeze. Squishy booby, you say. One sucky? you say in a voice you use when you try to sound like a baby even though you know babies don’t talk. The baby you once were never sounded like an eight-year-old pretending to be a baby. You are an eight-year-old who loves your mom’s boobs because you still like imaginary play. Because it seems impossible that a baby could survive on breast milk alone, even the few ounces we worked so hard to produce, even though I didn’t think it was enough, even though it was enough. Because you are closer to being born than being a woman whose sagging breasts once kept a baby alive.

Because the youngest human to birth a child was five years old. Because she was raped. Her parents were relieved her big belly wasn’t a tumor. Because she could have died. 

Because you were born with ovaries containing all your eggs. Because when I birthed you, I also birthed your eggs, because we are animals. Because we are animals, you don’t want to eat other animals’ eggs or body parts. Because you love animals. 

Because you ask good questions and demand good answers. You know about menstruation and ovulation and you’ve seen my blood—my unfertilized eggs, my uterine lining, the waste products of my female body. Because you still go to the bathroom with me. Because you want to know what’s going on behind closed doors. Because you don’t want to be alone. Because you know humans are animals.

Because you only recently grew out of thinking that because I bleed, I must be hurt. You no longer think a tampon is a band-aid. You no longer want to unwrap the plastic and offer the white cotton to me. You no longer want to kiss my boo-boo. You no longer cry when I tell you no. But it was only yesterday when you did. And you still hate the color red. And your questions are only more complicated. And my answers are only more convoluted.

~ ~ ~

“I’m just a kid, you know,” she said.

~ ~ ~

I know but— 

you can roll your eyes, climb trees, hold your breath and swim under water. 

I know but— 

your mouth no longer stops you from getting what you want, and you know what you want.

I know but— 

you have eighteen more teeth to lose and then wait for the new ones to pierce through your gums before your body has all its adult parts.  

I know but— 

your beauty increases every day whether you know it or not, whether you want it to or not, whether it’s yours until it’s not.

~ ~ ~

“I know,” I said.

~ ~ ~

I know but— 

there will be other sunburned men, other beaches, other wet swimsuits, other times when playing will not be funny. And one time, he will keep looking. And I will not be there. And you will do what you can to stay alive. And you will learn about blood and death and dying. And you will paint your lips red. And you will understand beauty. And I will die. Because I am an animal, too.