I'm 3 1/2 years old, and although I couldn't tell you which end of an allen wrench hooks into a hexagon hitch, I can tell you that sun glasses go well with bluesy tunes and tapping toes.
I was sitting at the dinner table tonight sorting through my collection of treasures. I'm what you might call a collector. I'm not sure if I get this from my pack rat father or from my mother who has a love of fine things she can't afford, but either way, I take great pride and pleasure in accumulating things that peak my interest.
I put things in boxes, or baskets, I slip cherished items into cupboards and I squirrel away gems into the backs of drawers. Then, when the time is just right, I uncover these stashes just to relive the magic of their first conception.
Tonight is was a cloth double handled bag, light blue, with some company's logo imprinted on the front. No doubt this bag was handed to one of my parents, filled with edu-shwag, as they leashed themselves up with a lanyard bearing a name badge as they entered into a conference about education. It must have been sunny when I hid this stash of treasures, because, as the rain poured down outside the kitchen window, I pulled from the satchel summer toys and bubbles, sun screen, a floppy hat and a pair of turtle shell Rayban knockoff sunglasses mom must have picked up at Old Navy for two bucks.
The timing couldn't have been better. My dad was in the kitchen doing what my dad does. He loves the kitchen. It is partly his center stage so everyone in the front of the house can catch his extroverted exploits, and part protection from having to roll up his sleeves and tangle with my brother's homework or the dog chewing on my shoes: from his perch behind the island sink, he can claim wet hands and never have to cross over into the living room which is the domain of my mother.
There was my dad, cooking my favorite meal, corn flake chicken, when, as he often does, he broke the, awkward only to him, silence. "Another Saturday Night" by Cat Stevens came belting from his belly like he was a Thursday night auditioner in a Chicago blues bar. Cat is a folk singer, but coming from my dad's gravely pipes, everything sounds a little bluesy.
I had just slipped on my shades as my dad rolled up the first verse. I was instantly transported into my own music video. I could feel the camera frame tight on my face, the glare from the window glinting off my shades, I couldn't help cocking my head just a bit to the side and waggling my free right hand in the air to the assumed back beat of the song. I was on autopilot, at the mercy of the music and the shades working together to tap my toes and wiggle my shoes to the sound of the song. Without thinking, I swung down to my belly, rolled off the chair like it was a choreographed move in the musical that is my life, and I hit the kitchen tile floor with both socked feet sliding to the beat.
It may have been the song, or it could have been the magic of the shades, regardless of the driving force, the outcome was worth the effort. I love to dance, and my dad loves to sing, but the joy we share isn't just the intertwining of our artistic extroversions, it is the pure joy that is my mommy's face when my daddy and I get caught up in the moment. Thank you mommy for loving us for being us.
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