Instar

~for Esmé

I can hear you digging in the snack cabinet again, and it’s got me thinking about a piece in Nat Geo about caterpillars in which the writer refers to them as “cylindrical eating machines.” That makes me think of you, since your appetite refreshes on the hour to sustain your lengthening.

Caterpillars grow extraordinarily fast due to constant feeding, I learn, molting several times before the pupal stage. At some point, a specific hormone surges and the caterpillar spins a pad of silk in which it embeds its cremaster (fancy name for “hook”), then hangs itself like a Christmas ornament to start the mystical process of metamorphosis.

Once in chrysalis, the caterpillar liquefies into what one scientist refers to as “a chunky stew” while specialized cells called imaginal discs dictate the remodel. There are imaginal discs for wings, legs, and antennae. Eventually, the cylindrical eating machine emerges as a winged butterfly equipped to sip sugar from flowers with a proboscis that looks like a straw.

You’ve molted at least three times this year, upping an entire shoe size in less than three months, and I suspect you’re approaching the pupal stage. Your body grows beyond itself, seemingly overnight. Once hormones dictate it’s time to dissolve into a pupal goo, I think you’ll find imaginal discs for eyebrows that connect in the center, as well as an aversion to working in groups. Let’s hope you get your sense of style from me, direction from your dad.

Never again will you undergo such rapid growth in such a short period of time. I feel for you, burgeoning child, your brain flooded with hormones that whisper wicked things in your ear, swearing to you that everything I do is intolerable. The furious amygdala of puberty leaves you vexed when I laugh off your annoyance, a tactic that allows me to dodge the laser beams you direct at my forehead. I refuse to stop having fun because you suddenly loathe me!

So, sweet girl, go ahead and attach your silk to the red maple of my heart and melt into goo while I keep the mildest of weather, and one of these days you’ll forgive me for staying merry. Just this morning, I reigned in a chuckle when you became angry in response to whether you’d like pancakes, and when you returned to the kitchen table after sulking in your bedroom, the pat of butter atop the stack had just begun to melt.