Alana’s voice is tiny. Cartoonish, dark knight rising, clawing up from deep inside a deep hole. Of cognition and empowerment and oratory. When she has not started a fight or sent herself into meltdown, her code is perfectly clear. Coors rocky mountain water clear. Rising out of that inky cave, grasping its edges, so close to pulling herself up. The stink bomb of willfulness and awful flying around the center of her storm is unable to obscure her voice, even a bit. Its just another filter, yet her voice is so clear.

I watched some vids of G when she was 4.5, and her voice too still sounded like an impressionist’s painting of childhood. So raw in saying, so hard to say it, so vanilla cake, syrupy and yummy. They speak in portmanteaus, and when i hear them they strike me as so normal i forget to remember them. I wish I’d kept a list of all the frankenwords my kids created. Most of us would agree they belong in Webster’s.

Genevieve’s voice is legible, relevant, thoughtful and clear. Metastasizing with each day successfully navigated, self-sustaining fuel of comprehension and competence.The honeyed spotlessness behind G’s voice makes the hard things she says sound gentle. I hope its a timbre and tone she keeps her whole life. She is so very beautiful.

I haven’t been on the bike in 3 weeks. I’ve been drinking on the trainer, getting up for school, driving so far to work cause I am so new at a new job i cant justify working from home.   My flexible well-compensated workaholic world is broken. I broke my finger. Cause i was tired. Cause i am not in shape. Cause i am metastasizing downward. A seminal shift upon all my notions of value, fitness, earning potential, and maternity. It didn’t just happen snap snap; it took 7 years, sluggish cannibalism to feed their voices.   Now, I want to be down here. I want to sit. 4 hour rides sound scary, and icky. 4 hours with kids sounds nominal, workmanlike, like an early weekend road ride used to feel, get it done and get on with my day.