Slippery weasel, easily weaseling his way down my throat. Into my heart.
Out again,
popping up in moments of sheer weaselifigance.
I thought it’d be easy to carry that weasel over There, one step closer to my “real” life, but
I’ve lost him.
That sneaky weasel!
Seems he doesn’t like ferretting out drivel, 100s of words about my daily life and thoughts, even though they are supposed to connect us
somehow
through Love.
I don’t know why I thought weasel would morph into a rainbow parade of butterflies, gently wafting messages of joy and interconnectedness through the ether. I thought it would be easy to write.
It’s not.
Seems I have lost his sister, Inspiration, too.
So I came back here, to maybe
hear his squeak.
Let me reach deep inside this burrow to see if I can retrieve
No wonder the vulture is one of my totems! Death, birth, rebirth! Rebirth! That fantastical, mystical modern link to the phoenix, risen anew from the ashes… For every ending, of course, something new begins…
All I believed or thought I “knew” is sloughing away. The immensity of what is being revealed makes me drop to my knees. Yet it is so simple.
Love.
Love from God to us. Love from us to God. Love from Us to Us, to raise each other up, every single one of Us, to finally reach back to God.
I say “God,” but the concept doesn’t come shrouded under the pretense of any formal religion, not Christian, not Hindu, not Muslim, not Pagan. Not Witch. There are no labels.
There is only Love.
From the One Source of All That Is.
What a twisted path to get here! Raised Catholic. Rejected Catholicism. Embraced Atheism. Discovered Wicca, and felt like I was coming home. Romped down the path of Pagan spirituality, formulating my own special blend. Then angel mediations, in which I was told [and felt] what a ‘much loved Child of God’ I am, and I believed, instantly. Workshops. Books — Doreen Virtue, Wayne Dyer, Louise Hay, Gary Zukav, now A Course in Miracles. Super corny, but Oprah’s Super Soul Sunday. Meditations, prayers, chakra balancing, healing circles. And I have marched myself right back to God.
Or maybe I have allowed myself to slip into my own heart.
My reawakening is happening. I feel newly born. A newborn. I know that there is Love. I know my purpose now is to be loving, compassionate, gentle, peaceful, and reverent to all life. How? How do I do that everyday, all day, my whole life? Especially with little children of my own? I have no idea. I will learn as I start crawling in Love. Then toddling. Walking. Growing. Spreading. Sharing. In Love.
So I probably shouldn’t be calling it a crisis. It’s not a crisis in the least, but a moment of sheer beauty and truth. Truth beauty.
Actually, the pettiest part of it all is me fretting about what to do about my blog! I am mildly shocked by how quickly I am shedding my Witch skin, as it defined me for a decade. I have great fondness for all things Witchy still, but I don’t BELIEVE much about them as a faith system anymore. Although I think the purpose of my blog was to live as authentically Me. Never would I have guessed that I would be led to the end.
So what do I do? Leave the blog as is, check it periodically, respond to comments if new people discover it (and even care to comment)? Archive it? Delete it? Change its name? The [Ex]-Witch Next Door. Create a new blog?
My youngest son is obsessed with super heroes. It started out simply, with me humming the tune to the 1970s Batman. I guess I piqued his curiosity, enough for me to search YouTube to find the original theme song for him to watch. I didn’t remember all the “Pows!” “Bams!” and “Kablooeys!” that went along with it, but he seemed to take it in stride. There wasn’t much to the tune, but the 1960s Spiderman theme song popped up, too. We played it. Now, that one is catchy. We started to talk about super heroes and their various super powers. How awesome they were. My youngest decided he was going to be Batman. His brother was Spiderman. Dad was the Incredible Hulk. And I was Wonder Woman. When I discovered that Artemis was a newer character of the Avengers, I tried to switch, but he wouldn’t let me. We all fell into our respective roles for a while, but the Super Hero obsession grew, and my youngest crossed over from Batman, into the realms of whomever he is feeling like at the moment. “Hulk smash!” when he needs to get some pent-up frustration out. The Flash when he is demonstrating his quick footwork for me. Captain America when he is feeling particularly proud and bold.
It pervades my little son’s life now, from outer wear (socks, slippers, shoes, pajamas, shirts, snow boots, sweatshirts), to play time (super hero figurines, super hero imaginary play, ‘slinging webs’ at gymnastics school), to social interactions (“Look, Mom, he has a Superman hat!” “Nice Spidey shirt, boy!”). Probably to his dreams, as he snoozes beside a Spiderman stuffed doll the same size as he is, Hulk beanie guy resting in his arms. Of course, I am the one who fed the obsession. He wouldn’t have piles of super hero books, clothes, toys, and cartoons on the DVR if it wasn’t for me. Maybe I am slightly obsessed then, too. Sometimes I think I have gone overboard. I probably have. I am sure the kid would’ve been quite content with one Batman figurine (not 3 and counting, plus goodness knows how many other characters lying at the bottom of the toy box), a T-shirt or two, a few books, and a show every now and then. But it is a fun lens to look through. Searching for good guys all day. Pretending to be the good guys. Being smart and strong and brave. Saving the world, one villain’s demise at a time. And although the details of it are complicated (they are literally universes unto themselves, the Marvel comics characters, DC Universe, Justice League, the Avengers, the X-Men, I seriously can’t get them all straight, intricate as the intertwining stories are, and I am probably getting it wrong right now), the message is pretty damn simple. There’s good guys. There’s bad guys. The good guys always win. So be good.
Good message.
It can be motivating for me, too. When I am starting to feel overwhelmed by a certain task, my youngest has told me, “But you’re Wonder Woman, Mom!” That’s right! I AM Wonder Woman! I can do anything! I have the ability to communicate telepathically with animals, metal cuff bracelets for protection, a magic lasso that forces the truth out of anyone, and an invisible jet that I can fly to Paradise Island to be among my fellow Amazonian sisters whenever I want. Oh yes, and a sexy body to die for. Doin’ it all in knee-high, high-heeled red boots. YES. I jest, but it does oftentimes jazz me enough to help me get through whatever situation or moment is frustrating me. Diana Prince often saves my day.
Obsession or no, there have been too many precious super hero moments for me to recount. Even today — chicken nugget in his (Hulk) fist, feet swinging back and forth in his new Iron Man, Thor, Captain America Crocs, bright orange Wolverine T, he smiled his sideways smile at me. “I yuv you, Mom.” I love you, too, buddy. My precious, adorable, little super hero.
As a child, I had a recurring dream of visiting an amusement park. I had dreamt the dream so many times, I was as familiar with the park as I was with the layout of my bedroom. I would walk on the paths, ride the rides. The roller coaster was my favorite. It was colorful and bright. Red. Exhilarating. Although I was always there alone. No ride attendants, popcorn vendors, face painting, children ‘wheeeeeing!,’ parents laughing. Whenever I visited the park, it was empty. Kind of cool, as I could explore every nook and cranny to my heart’s content (and I did). I never had to wait in line. But lonely, nonetheless.
The recurring dream went hand in hand with a few (shocking to me) psychic premonitions that came to fruition: a pink swerving bicycle tire; an upside-down visage against a turquoise backdrop; a yellow house, white wrap-around porch.
And then, whoosh, they were gone, dreams and visions, probably right around the time I really got into playing soccer. And hanging out with boys. Sports and dicks was all it took for the utter extinction of my psychic and spiritual gifts.
For a decade, maybe.
As a young adult, I yet again became intrigued with the dramas unfolding in my night-time brain, and always had some version of a dream journal going. Fascinating, fantastical, crystal clear, and mysterious symbols flooded my mind. That was what I boiled them down to — simply symbols and the meaning of the symbols. I was a lover of dream dictionaries. What did that egg mean? The airplane? The frog? Ah ha! An extremely basic perspective on the power of dreams, yet useful (and entertaining) at the time.
After discovering my Witch-iness, my approach to dreams shifted. More dream diaries, yes. But also more detailed dreams. I would awake, grab a pen and latest fairy & butterfly-covered journal, and start writing madly. I tossed the dictionaries aside now, concentrating more on my own personal untangling of what it all meant. With the help of my Witchy friends, of course. It was almost like the Glory Days of the Coven, as my Witch sisters and I would gather for lunch [often], with the sole intention of sharing our dreams and discussing them together. Listening to their interpretations, through their lenses. Sharing my insights. It was awesome and enlightening. One of the activities I miss most from the group experience. I still remember many of the dreams I brought to the table, embossed on my memory from so much talk about them.
Cracked coven, a spell of solitary practice, some spiritual workshops, and a few miraculous meditations and encounters later…my dreams today are insane. In the groovy, cool sense of the word. High definition almost comes close to describing them. It is more like I LIVE in my dreams, as real as when I am ‘awake.’ It is THAT authentically true of an experience for me now. I particularly enjoy spending time with people from my childhood in Dream Land. It is so poignant and profound — often times, I feel like I am actually visiting them. Or they are visiting me, as they need to see me or tell me something. And if I am yanked awake too soon by the “Hi, Mom! I am NOT a turtle… [fart]” of my two-year-old, I have visceral, physical reactions. Shortness of breath; tears; anger. I flop down, smash a pillow on top of my head, click my heels three times, pray, pray, PRAY that I could just return to that laugh, that cry, that arm around my shoulder, that crucial conversation I was having as I was just about to say… But once my eyes are open, I can’t recapture the dream, no matter how fast I try to record it. As vivid and life-like as they are, they are ephemeral. Fleeting. Sometimes I can only manage to remember either the person, or the general feeling, or a main event, but then they vanish. Gone are not only the details, but grand chunks of plot and narrative. I fume. They seem so important, if I could only REMEMBER. But I can’t.
In one of the latest, I am looking down the stairs at a childhood (7-year-oldish) version of me standing on the beige-carpeted landing of my townhouse, holding the leather leash of a baby elephant. I (7-year-oldish me) am about to lead the baby elephant down to the basement.
I wanted a daughter. I wanted a daughter. A daughter.
I tried to convince myself that I wanted a third child, but really I just wanted a baby girl. In a house dominated by two small boys and a husband, I longed for some gentle, sensitive, nurturing female energy to infuse the space with me. Something soft. Pink. An occasional tea party or two. Playing princess, glorious, regal princess, not just ‘princess trapped in tower that needed to be rescued from fire-breathing dragon by brave prince-knight.’ Sometimes I don’t ‘get’ my children, and I suspect it is because of their intrinsic, foreign-to-me maleness. I wanted to just get it. Even the cramps & periods, the snarky moodiness, tears, grudges, crushes, triumphs. I would get it. And maybe, someday far down the line of time, I would get a young woman who got me, too.
My husband was not too keen on baby #3, but seeing how much I wanted one, he conceded to the “let’s-try-but-we’re-not-really trying” baby-making method. No “every other day or else I am going to freak out” type sex, no ovulation kits, peeing on sticks, no Chinese gender charts, no acupuncture, no teas, no tinctures. More along the mindset of “if it happens, it happens; if not, oh well, we already have two beautiful children.” I agreed to play along, knowing on some level that it would never work, but if by some small, impossible chance, it DID, then it was truly meant to be. I had never gotten pregnant without strict dieting, exercise, acupuncture, meditation, spells, stones, prayers, and herbs, so I knew that if I did conceive, it would be a miracle.
Eighteen months. No miracle here.
Then I started to get the nagging itch for a dog. Compounded by a dark epiphany I had that maybe I didn’t want another baby, I was just so overcome by fear of what the next chapter of life was going to be that I wanted to stay safe and firmly in the comfort zone of what I knew [mommy of small children Me, even if it did make me loopy on a daily basis], my desire for a puppy grew. My husband laughed out loud at me, first it was a baby, now that the dream was dying a slow death, it was a puppy. But then I came down to the office one night, and he showed me the website of a breeder he had found online. I e-mailed the woman. That Saturday, a mere three days later, I was in her sister’s house, looking at puppies. By the strength of Diana, I didn’t walk out with a puppy that very day. I held out for another three weeks. A few days before Christmas (by then I couldn’t wait anymore), I was heading out in my SUV, large dog crate in the back, stocked with towels, water, and a toy or two, to a point mid-way between the breeder’s house and mine. To pick-up my [furry] daughter.
The Universe has a sense of humor. Here came the [furry] daughter for which I longed. She was all that I needed. And from the moment I got her, I felt my longing for a child slip away. Much of it was a practical wake-up call. Although an animal baby, the introduction into the family was still a disruption to the flow. Routines were thrown off. My kids were thrown off. My youngest was (still is slightly) super jealous. Add in middle of the night potty jaunts. Being on high alert that she doesn’t ingest some tiny toy part. Three times a day feedings, daily walkings, crate training, play time, obedience lessons. I often shake my head, imagining if it was actually a human infant. Secretly and guiltily feeling relieved it wasn’t. (“What WAS I thinking?!”) Then having a warm, wrinkly body draped across my lap in a languid, unconditionally lovely snuggle, feeling the moment as special and yummy as breast-feeding. Ah.
Thank the heavens for etheric, glowing, lavender bows. I’ve had to use mine frequently, in my defense (although less frequently these days). Just this morning, I had to shoot some gloppy monster of the deep right in his deadened black eyeball. I don’t bat an eyelash anymore — just lift the bow, aim, and fire. Then I call legions of angels, warrior gods, ferocious goddesses, and watch them whisk away the latest Mr. Gruesome. I have, surprisingly, become a bit de-sensitized. Par for the spiritual course, it seems.
There has been quite the lull in my spiritual life as of late. The mundane has been ruling supreme, leaving little room for angels and demons, meditation and miracles. Digging through my jewelry box for something sparkly for the New Year, my fingers closed around my bow and arrow pendant (I have such a penchant for pendants!), and I have been sporting it ever since. It is my symbol for Diana, and the constant, outward reminder of her hanging from my neck has helped turn my attention inward once again.
I had been attending weekly spiritual workshops through the grace of a woman in my community opening her space to us. It was like going to church. No, better than church. Soul food. Literally. I would leave, and feel satiated and full. Grounded, yet light. Satisfied. Motivated. Patient. Joyful. Connected. A being of Love. The woman has recently moved, and the glorious workshops have fizzled. As did my practice. At least temporarily. We tried other venues, but couldn’t seem to recapture the magic of it all. I think I was angry. I let the world take over — kindergarten, shopping, holidays, eating. Wiping runny noses. A new puppy. Furry snuggles, walks. Scrubbing soiled carpets.
I feel starved.
I did try to continue the angel group meditations. Except I was the only member of the group that attended. I would sit, and instead of the usual vibrant visuals streaming past my mind’s eye, there was an empty screen. Literally, blackness. Blankness. After the third time, I decided that I was kidding myself trying to force some spiritual activity, and in the next instant, like a crack of lightning…I found myself on what appeared to be a castle top, enveloped in a purple pink sunset. There was a woman there, cloaked and gorgeous, holding a chalice. The scene, though, was unlike the normal images I would usually experience during regular meditations; this time it was in total high definition, it had a sense of realism like I was THERE, really, truly THERE (wherever it actually was), feeling the wind, dazzled by the sky, absorbing the excitement of the woman (and the hazy group of others behind her), holding the chalice, sensing it’s weight, it’s cold gold smoothness. Then, SNAP. Called back to my body perched on the edge of the couch. WOW! I immediately start blathering to the meditation leader about what had just happened to me. “A woman with a chalice?” she asked. “Yes!” I blurted back, “I don’t know exactly who it was, and I didn’t think to ask, or maybe it’s not even important who it was, I just can’t get over how REAL — what just happened? I’ve never…” “Diana,” she interrupts. “It was Diana.”
Of course it was.
Idly fingering my pendant the other day, a childhood memory struck me. My father was a gym teacher, and being the tomboy that I was, I luckily got to play with all of the extra equipment he would bring home. Huge net bags of soccer balls. Fun! Neon orange cones. Whistles. Jump ropes.
Bows and arrows. Targets.
I shot arrows in my backyard, as a young girl.
I would haul the huge foam discs, and lean them against a swamp oak. I remember the primary-colored concentric circles of the target, the holes in the paper where they had been pierced by a hundred arrows before, the red bull’s eye. I would pace back 20 feet or so. Raise the tacky plastic blue bow. Finger the tacky plastic feathers at the end of the tacky plastic arrow. Slip it into the bow. Pull the string taut, as far back as I could, until my arm would start to quiver, just so slightly. Close one eye. Eye the bull’s eye. And fire.
I was a small archer.
Diana knew I was always hers.
And always will be.
I am so grateful to be cycling back into Spirit… Blessed Be!
Driving in the car with my husband the other day, I asked him what time he had finally crawled into bed with me. “About 2:00 a.m.,” he said, “but I couldn’t fall asleep because I was too scared,” he added. I froze, bracing myself for another demon tale. I switched the radio to the back speakers and turned the volume up so the baby couldn’t hear the rest of our conversation. “What happened? What did you see?” I asked urgently. “It was a person,” he said. [No demons, whew.] “What did he look like? Why was he so scary?” I probed. “Actually, he looked like the Flying Tomato,” my husband said. (“Shaun White?” my inner voice asked incredulously. “What could possibly be scary about Shaun White?!”) Hubby continued, “It was the feeling I got when I closed my eyes. I would see him, and then be filled with dread and fear. It was terrifying.” Huh. At the moment, I couldn’t relate.
I am still not sure I can relate to being terrified of a Shaun White look-a-like. But I am damn sure I can relate to the fear. Sadly (i sure preferred being oblivious), I have had my first encounters…with demons.
My psychic powers have been awakening, as I have come to interpret my newfound ability to see images of souls passing on. One night I closed my eyes, anticipating another smiling spirit waiting for me, waving hello. Oh, no no no. Not tonight. It was instead a hairless, snarling, ferocious, black jaguar humanoid-type creature with fangs dripping with venom. I bolted upright, opened my eyes, and of course the image disappeared. But I couldn’t shake the fear. And the feeling that whatever the hell this was, it wanted to GET ME. I started praying, feverishly, calling in angels, Archangel Michael, warrior gods, goddesses, ascended masters, any entities of the Light that were willing and able to come to my side immediately for protection. I renounced all Dark, asking that it be taken from me, and transmuted into the light. I asked that my home be filled with angels, especially my boys’ room, and that angelic sentinels be posted outside of my house. I could feel the calming, loving angelic energy pouring down into my room, swirling around me. I sensed a bit of a struggle; I imagined Michael and other angelic warriors surrounding the jaguar demon, casting him into a violet flame. Then I felt peaceful. And protected. I easily drifted off to sleep.
Alas, that was not the last night that I would shut my eyes and be met by a monster. Evil, sinister beings, all of them. Different. Zombie types. Demons straight from the imagination of Tolkien. One creature is burned in my memory, and although not the scariest looking thing I’ve seen lately, he was definitely the most disturbing. He had gray skin, and large, orange, unblinking eyes; his hair was twisted into snaky dreadlocks. It reminded me of some tribal headshrinker, replete with a bone in its nose. He started coming towards me, in my mind’s eye, thrusting his hips at me. I wanted to vomit. I still shiver, recalling the picture. Again, I called for protection. Again, it came. I have gotten wise, finally, and I call for protection now BEFORE I close my eyes. It seems to help. A bit.
I get the sense after every encounter that the creatures are angry and they literally want to ‘get me.’ I wonder, as I have been going through some rapid spiritual development and personal growth, if they are mad that they are losing sway on my soul as I hurtle towards the Light. Could it be The Big Bad Guy is pissed that one might be getting away??
Just last night, I felt like the angels bestowed me with a gift. As I was in that twilight state between waking and sleeping, I saw myself being given an etheric bow and arrow. A large, lavender, glowing bow. I took a few shots, I think. Then sleep.
Honestly, I hope I don’t ever have to use my new weapon. But, unfortunately, I think I will.
In The First Meeting, I (mock) mention gliding around in my friend’s basement while other Witches scan the dark for dead people. I recall the drama of it all, as if a back-up dancer from the Thriller video would pop out from behind the stairs and moonwalk across the cement floor. I claimed (proudly?) to have never seen a ghost, almost insinuating that I never would.
I was wrong. I DO see dead people.
But not like I thought I would. I don’t know if I had watched one too many episodes of Ghost Hunters or the Ghost Whisperer, or what, but I figured that in order to claim to have seen a spirit or commune with the dead, there had to be a full-bodied apparition standing in front of me. Or worse yet, a monster, a real, live, putrid, fanged, dangerous, evil creature would have to attack me while I was lying alone in the deep, hellish dark for me to say I had seen a demon. None of that has ever happened to me (not that I am discounting the possibility, nor other people’s experiences with the dead), but because none of that had ever happened to me, I made the (wrong) assumption that I did not see dead people.
I DO!
But at first I didn’t know WHAT I was actually seeing. I would close my eyes just before going to sleep, and I would see images of people flashing in front of me, as if I were watching a slideshow on Snapfish. They were like portraits, all different: some children, some middle-aged, African, red-haired, smiling. I wasn’t sure what was happening, or why, but I also wasn’t questioning it. I liked it, in some odd way. The people often seemed joyful, sometimes moving, almost like the animated paintings and photos from Harry Potter. I got the sense, too, that they were presenting themselves to me. It happened nightly for a short period of time, and I found myself looking forward to the moment my eyelids shut and someone appeared. I would wonder fondly during the day, “Who will visit me tonight?”
I had recently attended another angel meditation, and afterwards, we were all chatting about our experiences. A woman was describing an energy session she had done, during which the lightworker doing her treatment said she had seen a parade of souls marching out in front of her. I don’t know what about the image caused my epiphany, but an epiphany I had.
The portraits of people I was seeing at night were souls passing on. I am convinced of it.
And it is nothing like I expected. Not gruesome. No zombies rising from my floorboards, groaning, shuffling arms outstretched to the edge of my bed. Actually, I have only had one image that was mildly disturbing. It was a blonde woman, lying lifeless on the floor, eyes dead and unseeing, as if she had just been, well, murdered. It was like looking at a photo from a crime scene. But no blood, no guts. No gore. The most recent flash was of a woman in a green sweater. Her image was particularly large; she filled the whole field of my vision. And it was a medium shot of her, seated at a table, arms crossed. Like a news anchor. She looked eager to talk to me, but because she was so big, I got a little freaked. Eyes open. Not there. Eyes closed, boom!, there she was. Eyes open, gone. Eyes closed, boom! There! Aaack! I think I asked her to move on without even knowing it. Now, I wish I had asked her for a message instead. She was seated like a news anchor for goodness sake, obviously she had some info she had wanted to share with me. But I didn’t even think to ask.
Last month I mentioned that I could smell September on the wind. It smelled something like fall leaves and pumpkins. I should’ve added new backpacks, wedding cake, and birthday candles to the list. And smoke. Death.
My son is going to school all day long for the first time. I am still working through the letting-go-of-him process. Letting him go into the hands of others, not my hands, nor my husband’s, which are not always the most patient of hands, but our hands nonetheless, not the hands of strangers. All day. I am eating peanut butter and jelly and pasta for the next year so we can pay for him to go to private school. The best around. So if he is going to be in strange hands, I have tried to make sure that they are the best strange hands possible. I have faith that they are. Most of the day. My heart still skips a beat each time the phone rings, as I rush to the caller id to see if it’s school calling. And I also check the clock a zillion times, wondering, a zillion times, what he is doing. Out of my hands.
It didn’t help that on Day 5 of school the teacher requested a conference. Day 5. That has to be a record. Sent my universe a’ spinnin,’ for sure. I catastrophized the entire situation in my head — blaming myself, my ‘bad’ parenting, his diet, his eye surgery as an infant, not enough sleep, not enough exercise, not enough playdates, his brother, the rainy Thursday two years ago when I should have just taken him to that special library program, too much computer time, the TV — while simultaneously concocting cockamamie behavioral interventions, special after-school time with me, therapy appointments, sitting in his classroom with him like an aide, rewards for goodness, punishments. Was I going to have to yank him out of school as soon as I had put him in? I stopped at Starbucks on the way to the meeting, hoping to placate the teachers with coffee. Almost like a peace offering, an offering to the goddesses-who-hold-power-over-my-child. I was trying not to tremble or sweat. (impossible) Teachers: “Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. Harker! We just wanted to open up a conversation with you [Me: "Terrific!] about your son.” Turns out he had been spitting in school. Spitting?! Gross. And not one of the 975,000 behaviors I had imagined I would be addressing. But we decided to start there, along with some personal space encroachment issues. I could easily handle both. Crisis averted! I guess I didn’t need to withdraw him after all.
That night, my husband and I reminded our son that the only time he was allowed to spit was when he was rinsing his mouth out after brushing his teeth. We told him that not only was it rude and disgusting, but spit carried germs that could get on other people (hubby threw the last part in there, and I thought it was good stuff). We also spent time imagining bubbles around us — ‘bubble space’ — in an attempt to explain how people need a bit of room around them to feel comfortable. Classmates, of course, not family. We demonstrated the closeness of family as opposed to the ‘bubble’ a friend might need. Will he get it? Hope so. If not, I have hula hoop demo up my sleeve. Next trick.
I have to remind myself that he is no longer encapsulated in the bubble I had tried so hard to create for him. The bubble has burst; he is out in the world. Around other adults, other children, a myriad of personalities and behaviors. Where is that new clicking sound he is making with his tongue coming from? Who did he learn the ‘monsters and enemies’ game from? Did he just raise his hand to ask the check-out girl in Panera a question? Most of the influence I am grateful for – after just a few weeks, he is already following directions better. He seems calmer. And his brain is definitely being filled with most interesting tidbits of knowledge. The beginning of the learning journey! Such a fascinating time! I guess I will have to take the tics he picks up from Johnny as par for the course. Like my son is perfect. When Johnny starts potty-talking (“Guess what? Poo poop! Ha ha ha ha ha!”) as soon as he sits down to the table to eat, I will definitely know who he got it from…
My son wanted his 5th birthday party at the jumping place (a warehouse filled with inflatable moon bounces). He dictated the guest list to me, and told me he wanted pizza and chocolate cupcakes. Of course, I spent my other arm and leg arranging his special day for him. I had trashed the cigarettes for Rosemarie, and I was ready to celebrate with him. Celebrate him. As he blew out the pastel-spotted number five candle plunked in the chocolate icing of his candle, I cheered. I wonder if he made a wish. I sure did. For his little life to be filled, gracefully and easily, with love and joy and wonder. May our wishes come true.
My husband took a picture of my son on his iPhone in the car on the ride home from the party. We have never seen a wider smile on his face. Score! The party was a sensational hit! I printed the pic out, and tacked it on the fridge. I giggle looking at it, seeing his visage of pure happiness. I am constantly reminded how his little life has already filled mine. With teacher conferences. With love. And joy. And wonder. My child, my most precious gift.
