I’m terrible at privacy

I had this surreal moment today, while I watched Mila play at a small playground in our apartment complex.

The phone rang and it was her father, who calls on a semi-regular basis, so she came and got the phone.

And for a moment, she sat, as she usually does at the beginning of these calls, pouting, on the park bench next to me. But she warmed up quickly to the conversation and got up, and began wandering absent-minded around the playground while she spoke with her dad.

Without my eternal life-giving source of entertainment (my iPhone) at my disposal, I sat, listening. But it's hard to give a four year old privacy.

I often forget that I'm not raising a four year old, but an adult human, who will always have the same mind, heart, and soul.

So, I want them to have a relationship, but I don't want him to hurt her. I guess that will be true of all the relationships she will have.

I don't know what I'm getting at – like I ever do, but I felt conflicted in that moment on the playground.

It was an innocent conversation, but I felt blanketed by this stark reality that I probably shouldn't be overhearing it.

After all, I get the lion's share of privacy with my daughter. I wouldn't want him to be eavesdropping on all of our conversations.

I struggle to not ask her what they talk about, and most times I"m pretty good about it. The only place I ever waver is in the unrealistic promises department, which typically warrant a later, follow-up phone call (away from her ears) in my sternest Mama Lioness voice.

Oh my little Mila, I want so desperately for you to be much, much healthier and happier than I ever could be.

A "boring" life of normalcy for you would truly be my life's magnum opus.