“Mine?” she asks, a sparkle in her eye.
“No, Bee, you can’t have my keys,” I mumble sleepily, ready to head out the door for our morning errands.
“Mine,” she says, now smiling. The statement is no longer a question – it’s a warning. A courtesy, letting you know where she stands, giving you insight into her every intention to take what she’d like.
And really, the keys are no longer mine anyway. None of it is. The keys and the schedules and the control – it was released long ago, somewhere between swollen feet and morning sickness and after swaddling blankets and sleepless nights.
It’s hers. Our mornings and our afternoons and our moments and our lives. They belong to Bee, to our family.
“Mine,” she says once more, this time more demanding. Her smile is replaced with a fierce loyalty to the keys, a strong desire to own them and keep them and possibly hide them in the dog dish.
“No,” I say, for the final time, distracting her with a stack of books and a sippy cup. But I know the irony in my words. The keys are hers.
Her future and her potential and her dreams and her goals. Everything is hers for the taking.
“Mine,” she’ll say, my car keys replaced by career choices or family plans or big ideas.
And one day, I’ll say “Yes, Bee. Take them, hold them. Keep them close to you, forever and ever.”