The Elbow

Let's just start by stating the obvious - not everything makes sense. You can't explain God, but you know He is there. You know ice cream is bad for you, but in that intangible and unexplainable moment, you know the benefits of 71 grams of sugar on your tongue out rank the counterbalancing 90 minutes on the treadmill to reach equilibrium. Life doesn't always have to make sense. We are given five senses, and some would argue a sixth, and it is our job to keep the whole juggling act together using the gifts we've got. If a long jog in the morning puts you together, good for you, but if you think the gal down the street is silly for meditating through needle point, or the guy at your work plays too many video games, or if you think that the guy who needs two seats on the airplane should maybe pass the Cinnabon stand on his way to the boarding gate, don't judge, everyone is juggling their own senses to meet their own given situations: Me? I've got my mommy's elbow.

Look, I am not asking anyone to understand, I don't even fully get it myself, but there is something about the safety of that angular body part that just puts my feet on the ground. Since I took that first breath of life in that hospital room in Roseville, this world has thrown me some curve balls. Who knew a soy allergy undetected for 14 months months would keep my little tummy in painful knots? And what is the deal with all the other babies getting full and luxurious nights of uninterrupted sleep, while I have felt the need to wake-up screaming every 45 minutes since birth? And don't even get me started on the whole grocery store old lady walk-up commenting on what a cute little boy my mommy has when I am so clearly 100% angelic-little-girl-princess material! So, when the going get's rough, my mommy draws me in tight for an: only the way mommy can, make it all better, heart to heart, head on shoulder, hug...and that's when, without hesitation nor fail, I reach out and get a grip on mommy's elbow.

I can't really paint you a picture, but I assume that for the athlete it must be that moment she steps on the court and everything becomes balanced in the universe, or the painter who picks up the soft bristled brush on her way to the magic of a blank canvas, and to the pastor on the pulpit it is his right hand on the book. I reach out, eyes closed, salty with tears, and find that one patch of skin on my mommy that isn't as baby soft as my own little bottom, the one angle on her torso without a gentle curve, and I latch on with my little baby grip. My mommy can feel my entire body relax once I find that grip, as if I have docked and can now receive the comfort mommy is dispatching. My daddy, from across the room, can see my body relax and give way to mommy's love, he can hear my cries turn from scream to whimper, all because I have found my grip on life that just puts me together.

Don't judge: you may have your Zoomba, the guy down the street may listen to golf on the radio, for someone else Facebook may be the place they dock to gain peace, for me - I have my mommy's elbow.