We Could Be Heroes

Whenever Cheryl sees a parent with a young kid, like a 3 year old toddler, she thinks to herself man, that's heroic. It's bloody fucking heroic, is what that is. There's this tiny little person clinging onto their dad like a koala bear as he straddles her across his hips like a casual sack of groceries. Nonchalant, all easy-like. It blows Cheryl's mind. There was a time when her ovaries would have exploded but now they're all shrivelled up and useless. That's what she tells herself.  Physiologically it's not true but she envisions her womb as closed for business right now. Psychically it's as if she's hung a sign that reads Under Renovations, Please Be Patient. Whatever it is, she's reading as unapproachable, beholden to none and Not Available. Hence the sleepy ovaries. If  Emmet had his shit together Cheryl thinks the two of them would have made exceptional babies. He was the only man she ever envisioned breeding with. Ever. A lot of near misses;  Emmet felt like the real deal. She conjures up images of beautiful, bright eyed and bushy tailed, happy-go-lucky, creative, kind, wonderfully perfect Mini Me~s. The perfect hybrid of the best of both of them with the right split between his totally emotional, creative, right-brain, empathetic yet detached and guarded self, and her left brain slash right brain compassionate, dictatorial, anxious but gracious to a fault, big hearted mess. His height, her laugh. His spatial awareness, her maths and sciences. Their shared curiousity. Cheryl thinks on this often. That's what everyone aspires to when they embark on this parenthood thing. It's an attempt at the ultimate do-over, the remaking of their own flawed, fragile selves in the creation of brand new beings. Of course, they have no control over any of this, Cheryl knows that, deep down in her bones, in her marrow. She gets this, she does. Every time she sees a dad with a child at that tender, fleeting age where they're just young enough to be totally dependent yet old enough to separate, blossoming into their own unique creature, Cheryl catapults back 5 months. Her heart cracks wide open, fissures split like old, crazed pottery, fault lines running ragged under layers of glaze, worn through with years of use. Cheryl watches the dad swing his daughter up onto his shoulders effortlessly, like he was popping on a porkpie hat. To be heroic. To be something more than ourselves. The daughter squeals with pleasure, fist pumps the air and the dad like Superman strides forward, one arm cocked at his waist, the other clasping his little girl's hand, outstretched as they lean into the wind, together.