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.

We Want What We Can't Have

I suppose poor people want to be rich and rich people want to be free and the free want to be married and the happily married with kids just seem to want a little peace and quiet, well, this is all according to my dad - he says we want what we can't have.

Me? I just want a blue cookie.

Honestly, I am not even sure where I got the idea, but the blue cookie has been the apple of my eye for as long as I have been able to talk. Granted, I was an early talker, but I have to tell you, I have been eye balling that golden ticket for a long time.

I have a soy and dairy allergy. If you are reading these words for the first time, they may not have the impact that they should, so I will say it again: if there is dairy or soy inside something I can not eat it. You may be a little annoyed by having been told the same thing twice, if that's you, you might want to stop reading now. No soy. No dairy. 

Cheese, ice cream, sandwich meat, mac n' cheese, pizza, any sliced bread that doesn't taste like feet, any meat from a restaurant, every seasoning package for every tasty stew, every soup in every can, everything that has nuts is also processed in a factory that processes soy, every cookie, cake, ding dong, Twinkie, and sugar filled kids party treat of any kind, if it comes in a package that makes a crinkly noise - the universal calling card for junk food sound - it has soy in it, I can't eat it. If it says yum yum, sweetness, or "kid approved" it has dairy in it - I can't eat it. More or less, if it comes off the aisle that every mom tries to avoid in the grocery store, it is a no go. 

Have you ever been to a no soy no dairy kids birthday party? Yeah. Me neither. They don't make 'em. So my mom has to cringe and follow me around at every little kid gig to make sure some 3 year old smuggler doesn't slip me a Cheeto when nobody is looking. At my pre-school they have my mugshot on the wall above the lunch cart like a post office wanted sign to heads-up any substitute teacher not to offer me milk and graham crackers - one is dairy the other has soy.

Apparently, if it comes in a box to make life easy for a chef on the go, it is filled with soy so the guy who made the box can earn an extra buck. So, in my house, everything is made from scratch. That may sound gourmet, but I'm not going to lie: my dad does all the cooking, and he only knows how to cook 4 meals, so it is leftovers 3 nights a week and no variety 365. I love the man, but I am buying him a cookbook for his birthday this October, then I am going to give him two months to figure out how to whip up a soy free dairy free blue cookie by Christmas.

A girl can dream.

We're Moving to the Beach

Daddy bought a little flip flop for mommy's charm bracelet so that we could always remember the family plan - I am going to High School in San Clemente! You see, we took a family trip this spring: some families like to visit amusement parks; some families are more cultured and visit museums. Our family took a trip to the coast. I thought the best part of the trip would be burying my brother in the sand or getting my toes wet in the surf, but my parents seemed happiest when they found the gluten free store on main street? Grown ups!

Daddy took me to Stewart Surf shop, where apparently the "they make the greatest surfboards in the world." I don't know what a surf board is yet, but I had fun looking at all the pretty colored coffee tables they had leaning against the wall.

We stayed in an amazing house, we visited with family, my brothers were there of course...but it was during this trip that I realized that when you live with boys, they are your brothers and when you live with girls, they are your sisters. So, now I have two sisters.

This life just keeps on getting better!

Slippers and Taps

When mommy first took me to dance class, I wasn't exactly sure what to expect. The truth is, I don't really need a class to teach me what is in my heart. I love to dance. 

My first day of dance class, I just hovered near mommy. The truth is, I just didn't want to show off in front of the other kids. They all had dance skirts and I hadn't gotten mine yet, so I thought I'd wait until the whole package was complete. Now that I have my skirt, I have left mommy's side and I have found this wall. It is a step in the right direction. I like to start most things like this: my mommy says I am an observer. I like to get a good look at any situation before I jump in and completely take over -which is exactly what will happen once I warm up to this dance class thing. 

It wasn't too long before some of my friends found my wall. I'm not always the best at sharing, but it is hard for my friend to be away from her mom too, so it is ok if she stands against my wall.

Dance class is funny. The teacher seems to not know anyone's name, it seems like she calls everyone Abby - which is my name - so I let her know that my name is Abby Jane. Yesterday, during our water break, my teacher turned on my favorite movie in the lobby, and while everyone sat to change from ballet slippers to tap shoes, I stood in the middle of the lobby, eyes glued to the TV and I sang the last verse of Love is an Open Door loud enough to make my daddy proud...all the other moms were very impressed. 

I think this dancing thing is going to work out.
I have friends at the class, they play the frozen song every time I'm there, and it makes my mommy so happy when I dance, that how could I deny her this pleasure - after all she is my whole world.

The truth is, as much as I love dressing up in my dance outfit, and twirling in front of the mirror, as much as I love to see the smile on my mommy's face and the pride on my dad, and as much as I love the music that prances in my heart before, during and after the class, there is one reason that stands out above all others that makes this studio so special. It must be the reason that every balarina struggles through the difficult times, the hours of labor, sweat and toil. It turns out that if you work hard, listen to your teacher and learn to dance, at the end of each workout, you get a blue lollypop that your mommy will let you carry around until bed time.

A Shoebox of Memories

I am 2 1/2 years old. My mom used to tell people how old I am in months but she stopped doing that. The last time she told me how old I was with months she said, "Abby Jane, I haven't slept in 18 months and I'm so tired." That was a long time ago, but I still don't think she has slept. My mom is not a good sleeper. I wake up a lot, and when I do, I look over, and there she is, wide awake. Since she's up anyway, she is always willing to help me get back to sleep.

I live a charmed life.

My mommy loves me more that anything in the world. I know this because she always says, "Abby, I love you more than anything in the world." My dad bought my mom a charm bracelet for mother's day, it was going to be a surprise, but I told her. In al fairness, I also told her that I had bought her a blue cookie for her, so my surprise was ruined too.

I'm 32 months old - and I have a lot of words.

Daddy said that he wanted some way for mommy to remember all the magical things that happen to mommy and me. He thinks it is sweet, I just think he is doing it because he can never seem to remember anything...I don't know why, he sleeps more than any of us! Dad says the big things are easy to remember, those are the things that go on the bracelet, but it is the little things that slip away, the funny little things that I say during the big things.

Today, before I went to learn ballet, I taught mommy something new about her hair: it is yellow all over, except the first little part that is closest to her head, so I told her, "Mommy, your hair is two different colors." It seems almost every day I have something I can teach my parents.

One thing I have learned in 32 months is that big memories live on coffee tables and framed over the mantle, or on  a charm bracelet but everyone needs a shoebox for those little scraps of memories that they just don't want to slip away.

This is that shoebox.

Perched at my Window

Could you imagine a life without the ability to speak? To live in a house with people who love you, with a mom that caters to your every desire, with a father who loves to love you and two brothers who giggle with and because of you? I am only 14 months old. My head size is in the 98th percentile. Dad thinks that means my hat size is going to be hard to find and mom wonders which hairstyle will best suit my large skull, but neither of them seem to realize that I am already smarter than both of them.

All the mechanics of daily life are starting to come faster, day by day, if I could only just get these limbs and digits to do what I know they can do, and don’t get me started on the whole gross and fine motor skills of the mouth, tongue and larynx necessary to talk!

So in between my daily exercises and the painstaking wait for my motor skills to develop, I am all eyes. God granted me a set of saucers a mile wide and 30 minutes deep to gaze out at the world through: blue like deep water. I take it all in. It isn’t the big movements, the obvious, “oh look at the widdle baby,” smile that I get from someone that I take in. It is the moment just before they smile or the length that they hold my gaze without a reciprocal smile that teaches me about my race. I will be smart soon. I am intelligent now.

Smart comes from books. Nobody but mom realizes it, and nobody believes her, but I can already read. So, smart will be easy.

Intelligence is connecting the dots. Finding meaning where none is implied. The twinge of her lip and the dart of the eye to see if my mommy is looking before the mail carrier squats and pinches my cheek tells me that half of the show is for me and half is for the carrier herself who misses the days when she had a young daughter of her own. She wants to fall into the fantasy of her past, but steals a look at mommy and twinges as she realizes that to submerge in the dream is taking it too far. 

For all the obvious learnings that I must undergo, it is my fascination of the social norms that drive my interest. I have no language, yet I have learned to get what I want. 

My mother is an angel. She is the best part of me. Cognitively I know we are physically separated, but I know something that my grown-ups have long since forgotten: we are connected. I can see that this connection, this original form of communication becomes buried under years of social norms training, but today, before I have been contaminated by social constructs, I understand my mother better than she understands herself.

Her heart beats at a different rate and her body temperature drops when she feels that she is not giving enough of herself. She warms when I am comforted and she stiffens when I near danger. Within 15 feet of her, I can feel when I am about to bump my head or if I am nearing an edge, I can sense when food is too hot without using my own touch, just by the wind that pours off of the hairs on the back of her neck as they rise. We are connected in a way that the moon affects the weather but that it can not be explained. 

Each day, between inventing routines, and carrying out protocols that are practice for life in this world, I take a break. I know a place in the wall so thin it can be seen through. Somewhere between my first and second nap, the sun floods in through the glass and warms the sofa. It is my special place: Not far from my books for reference; Close to the place where mommy and I share food; From this place my eyes explore the outside. The subtle interactions of heaven and earth can be seen from this place. The striped bees fly patterns that I am sure are unnoticed by the grown-ups. Every now and then, I can see that Johnny, my 6 year old brother, still sees the patterns, but already his vision for such things is fading. The way the flowers talk to the wind and the keystone chase scenes between the birds and the leaves of the trees, weave a cinema that far exceeds the dim two dimensions broadcast on the TV. 

I know I will lose this seat at the window some day. I recognize that my vantage will change and the subtleties will all someday disappear only to be replaced with the quantified confines of language. Until then, I will watch in amazement and cherish the connectedness.