And how are the children? you ask. Wonderful. Henry woke last night at some point and came in crying that his bug bite was hurting him and we groaned, You’re killing us! and he yelled, I’m getting myself a Band-Aid! and we said, Great! Shut the door! But he didn’t shut the door. Then at about six this morning John got up and took off all his clothes and put on a plastic green bowler he was given on St. Patrick’s Day and ran up and down the hall trying to wake the house. David left for work, Henry slept, and I slept, off and on, for another hour and a half. I love how the children are getting older, you know? And can take care of themselves.

They are getting older. Last night Henry lay on the couch across from me and did his Great Undersea Search book while keeping an eye on the Mets game. It is almost impossible to understand that the person who does this is someone I gave birth to. I think it’s strange, sometimes, that although I love the children more than anything else in the world, they’ll never really know me, and we’ll never really be friends. How can it be otherwise? As their mother, I have to tell them the claptrap that mothers tell their lucky children: that life is orderly and meaningful and that people only die when they’re very, very old or very, very sick, and don't worry, darling, it was just a dream. I have to, so that they’ll be able to enjoy their youth and fall in love and work hard and have that feeling of purpose that, together with love and memory, allows one to be purely happy, from time to time, as an adult.

But someday soon they’ll be old enough to understand what I have done, and they’ll realize that either I lied to them or I didn’t understand everything I said I understood. They’ll feel like they don’t know me, like they can't know me. They’ll probably also feel as if they should be telling me things that will make me happy, regardless of whether they are true, since this is the template I laid out for them. And so it will go, the not-knowing, until I die. That's what it is to be a mother. You make false worlds.