With my voice dripping of ridicule, I declared, "What an idiot!"
My Little Lady immediately gasped. "Momma! You shouldn't say that!"
"What a foolish, foolish thing to do!" I justified. What person in their right mind would do something like that!?
"But Momma, that isn't nice!"
A little bit later I lay next to her tiny form in her bed, snuggled in close, ready to sing her a song. "My stomach hurts."
The whole time I didn't know what to say. The whole time I didn't know whether this was happening for HER or for ME. Was I supposed to DO something with this? Or was I just supposed to be there, to be a calm presence, to listen? Was God trying to speak to my own heart through her words and her wounds? I felt almost panicked, not having time to think through all the options and what the one very right thing to do could be. I wish I could say I chose out of wisdom, but that's not true. I chose out of exasperation. I just tried to listen. To affirm her. To tell her I was sorry. So very sorry that it happened to her and she'd had to live through that.
"They say a burned child fears fire. That's the truth." she said.
I saw it the moment she walked in the door that Friday evening. Something was wrong. Not her normal 'I didn't get my way' kind of wrong but a deep, consequential wrong. In a millisecond I had time to think a thousand year's worth of thoughts.
I had forgotten.
I've been working on tamping down perfection's head when it tries to rear up. I decided to just try it. If i didn't like it, no big deal! If it was too much time, I'd just quit. The world wouldn't explode. Little did I know...
I was standing at the stove, cutting a package of bacon in half. Those lines whooshed over me like the first rays of sunlight coming over the horizon in the morning.
That!
Out of the blue the other night in the midst of some other activity, the Lady came up to me and asked with a most serious tone, "Momma, do I look like you?"
I had spent 18 of the last 72 hours in a Sportsplex with four full basketball courts being utilized continuously by some fifty kids from age 7 to 15. Countless balls bouncing, always bouncing, plus the unexpected whistles and buzzers, and incessant squeaks of sneakers on the court barraged my senses for six hours on Monday, then Tuesday, then Wednesday.
I snapped. 415pm. Wednesday.
When the new year dawned, I knew we would be moving mid year despite being unable to share that with anyone. I decided to embark on both a Project 365 AND this 1SE One Second Everyday video Project simultaneously
Art is Expensive.
The creation of art is expensive.
The process of learning to make art is expensive.
And it is a luxury that so many are never afforded the opportunity to experience.
I know better. I know better. I know better.
The whole morning was ‘off.’ I slept too late. I took the dogs out too late. I had to wait forever for the puppy to poop. I woke the kids late. I got The Lady in the shower late. I started cooking breakfast late. They started eating breakfast late. Then I spent their entire breakfast time looking for the cup of coffee that I’d poured before putting The Lady in the shower. I couldn’t find it anywhere.