The first words from a first born baby are just the best, aren’t they?
Our first child’s first word was… wait for it… wait for it… ball!
Yep, not original, but, girl, I wrote it down in the baby book, called my mom and was so excited I could have started a blog dedicated to his brilliance.
Then, he added words, but only a few. He called my husband “Dadda” and he could also say “up” when he wanted out of his crib.
Do you like the way you do life?
Does it work for you, or do you work for it?
That was the question Terri asked me recently.
I have never felt so clueless in my life – I didn’t even feel worthy of speaking into that person’s life.
We once had some very odd neighbors. Odd is not an insult; it’s a correct analysis!
Here’s why – every fall, a crudely constructed cardboard sign was erected in their front yard which read, “Love Potion #9 For Sale.” We mused if the potion would help someone love you or maybe it was the perfect formula to make you love someone! If the latter were true, I may want to buy a flask because loving someone, well, is often tricky. So, without cost, I offer you my very own “Love Potion #Mine!”
The tip of his index finger feels light against my skin. He taps, blends, and smears ever so gently.
“I love you and I think you’re beautiful,” he says.
It’s yet another black eye. This one, courtesy of the six-foot-tall bedpost in our bedroom. The arrangement of the furniture in the room hadn’t changed, but evidently, my brain had. I’m older. It’s hard to remember everything all the time. Where am I walking? Which way am I turned? What wall am I facing?
So, into the bedpost I walked. Another black eye. This one, though, just seemed to heal more slowly than the ones before. Another change of aging.
As his fingertip swirls the beige putty that hides the blueish reminder of my memory lapse, I realize one thing has not changed. He loves me gently. He loves me well. He loves me in ways that no one really could imagine.
There were 11 girls. They all sat on couches in the small room around me. This was not their home … but it was where they lived.
My friend Carolyn and I were visiting a girl’s shelter. As I shared pizza with the girls, I listened to their stories, and then talked with them. Each young lady sat there with me because her home is not safe. These girls have experienced abuse, neglect or abandonment. This was a safe place to stay in the meantime, waiting to go home again.
Britney said it, Taylor said it, Connie and Shalonda said it too. They each spoke of it – home. Every girl seemed to hold on to the hope that she would one day go back.
