This is my voice

"This is my mommy voice," my five year old daughter said in falsetto.

"This is my daddy voice. Whatever." I intoned deeply.

"This is my daddy voice. Uh... I forgot," our seven year old said.

We laughed. Karl and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes.

"This is my daddy voice. My name is I forgot my name!" our five year old exclaimed.

We did not laugh. I thought of my daughter's play therapist with gratitude. Karl and I did not meet each other's eyes.

"Ok, that's enough voices. Finish eating," I told the kids.

The kids do not know that our biggest fears involve my husband forgetting who we are or who he is. Actually, maybe they do know. We don't hide Karl's brain damage. We talk openly about why he forgets things and, while he and I talk quietly about what will happen when he cannot recognize me, we do talk about it.

Our kids are kids. I know that many adults have trouble finding the line between dark humor and cruel mocking. I do not expect our kids to know the difference, especially not our five year old who was born to play to an audience. There is no blueprint for a happy family. We have no rules about how we may or may not come to terms with Karl's injuries. We just come to terms with them. As we feel our way forward together, we learn how far is too far.