Prevailing over Grief
George always had a hint of sadness as he took care of my host- I mean me, for my first year. I did my best to cheer him up by playing with him, laughing when he held me, and other gestures my previous hosts used that made their parents happy. I tried not to trouble him, but a baby had to do what a baby had to do. So I would cry whenever I needed to be changed or burped or fed or any other biological need. My experiences with my hosts told me an adult should feel embarrassed by this, but frankly I had lived many lifetimes and couldn't care less. I needed what I needed, and there was no shame in that. Perhaps I'd feel ashamed if I begged for something unnecessary like a toy or something, but I wasn't so whatever.
George worked full time and hired a nanny to take care of me during the day. His wallet might have been burdened, but it wasn't about to break since we lived in a quaint home that we apparently owned. Whenever he came home, he would spend lots of time with me, but no matter how I giggled or laughed for him, there was always still this persistent sadness within him. He would often break down in silent tears, clutching a photo of Lillith. He never cried out loud, he was told by doctors it could affect my development. So he just silently cried. I held a lot of respect for that man, so when time came to call him by title came, it didn't feel foreign or out of place for me.
"Da." I told him one morning before he left for work. "Dada-pbbt." I managed to spit out with my limited ability to blabber. "Primrose called my name? Oh you precious little thing!" He scooped me up while squealing a storm. A few minutes in, the Nanny arrived to take care of me for the day. "Nan." I said, pointing at her. My father calmly pulled out his phone. "Hi! Yeah I'm good, how about you?....Thats great. Hey I'm just calling to let you know I'm not coming in for work today. .... Thanks man, see you tommorow." The nanny was holding me in her arms, and blinked at my father with a blank look in her eye.
My father stole me from my nannys' clutches. "Primrose, call me Dada again please?" He begged. ...This doting father decided to stay home just because I called him Dad? With a long string of giggles, I decided to oblige him. "Dada." I smiled at him and lightly placed my hand on his forehead. "You adorable little bundle of sweetness!" My father said as he lightly offered me his pinky to grab. He turned to my nanny, and compared to how he expressed such joy at 2 syllables from me, he seemed dead calm when he spoke to her in spite of the smile on his face. "Ah, could you make us breakfast? Primrose first please." The nanny amusedly agreed and stepped into the kitchen, and my father went back to begging me to call him Dada again. .... This doting father!
After that day, his tears stopped. He would spend an hour writing every night in a diary instead, as if to report how I was doing to his wife. Or rather, that's exactly what he was doing. He didn't bother to hide the diaries contents from me because he didn't know I could read. He started his mornings with me, showing me flash cards and telling me stories. He had the Nanny do that too. Guess he was told it's good for my development. Perhaps I should have been bored by the monotony that was my routine, but I found every day a beautiful experience. I was no longer an observer. I could interact with the world around me! No one could possibly fathom the deep appreciation I held for the ability to move my muscles as I wished. I was happy even with the limited abilities of being in a babies body.
I patiently developed like a normal kid, though I did my best to allow certain signs of very high intelligence such as speaking very little in my early development, waiting until I could speak in full sentences. Little things like that, because I knew far more than I should for children my age. I based how much development I allowed myself to go through each month based on memories of my previous hosts. With such a wide sample base of references and experiences, it was relatively easy. The years seemed to flow swiftly by me, despite the length of limited activities, perhaps because compared to the length of time I've been conscious is simply too vast compared to my time in control.
Until I was three, I had limited interactions with technology. My father had removed nearly all of it from the house so he wouldn't bury himself in grief from the reminders of his wife or get distracted by all the... well, distractions. So when he finally decided to install a new computer for working from home, I was desperately expressing interest, however much to my chagrin my father didn't fall for my puppy dog eyes, and locked the computer room away for some reason. I disappointedly accepted the fact I would have to wait until I was a little older to marvel at the progress civilization had made in the last 300 years, and settle for as many stories as I could convince my nanny to read. "Moa!" I smiled cutely at her, the sound of a keyboard clicking away behind me.