He says, she says

By kbxmas

When my son was a toddler he rarely talked. For about six months a speech therapist came to our house once a week and tried to draw out his words. Eventually he started to speak but still, he remained a boy of action and few words. Until this past year, that is. It's as if he discovered the joy of articulation overnight and now assaults us with non-stop verbal artillery. Take this salvo, thrown at me as I was pulling into the Target parking lot the other day:

“I just burped without making a sound. I wish my bones were superglued together. Mommy, when I opened my juice it 'sploded. In you van. Are you mad? I smell french fries.”

His words are like buckshot, tiny pellets of minutiae scattered to the wind. He'll throw a hundred words at me and maybe six or eight will stick.
My 7-year-old daughter on the other hand, chooses her words thoughtfully. Hers is the silver bullet tucked with care in her pocket, withheld until absolutely necessary, never wasted. They have the power to melt hearts and wound them.

Tonight she was harping on about something that was unfair so I sent her upstairs for a cooling off period, which only served to further stir her ire and as she made her way down the hall to her room she yelled the following at me: “I hate you and I will never apologize! And if I do apologize I won't mean it!”

While I should have been wounded by this, I've been hated by her enough times to know that it only lasts the duration of her time out and besides, I was too tickled by her addendum to be hurt. As predicted, once she was allowed back downstairs we made fast with a hug and a game of trash, in which she beat me soundly. Fortunately, both my children are fluent in the language of forgivemess, as are all children, in their wisdom.

I'm a bit apprehensive, however, for her teenage years, when her tongue may grow sharper and her cooling off period longer. At least I'll have my son to talk at me while I'm waiting her out. Unless, of course, they go changing on my again, as kids are wont to do.

Also posted on Wanderlust

of pen and paper

Things die. People die. Recently, I have had the experience of not having technology at my fingertips, here in Prague and it made me blow the dust off of tools I had buried deep within my toolbox. The simple need to communicate has made me rediscover this flat substance, usually made from trees and a writing instrument that bleeds ink. You can control the flow, perfect in its own creation and perfectly reflects the flaws of the user. There is no spell-checker, or recommendation to lift your voice...restricting you to your own voice.
I saw a protest. A sole individual wanting to be heard. Are outcries to be heard obsolete in the cold? We don't paint signs and gather as much as we did or our parents.
Religion...perhaps that is a good thing that we start to see our need to be saved from our selves starts with saving ourselves.
Though graphing is like an artistic protest, I rarely find pieces like this.
What we do see is the evidence of our past. Our transport has changed from footpaths and horses as primary means. I looked at my laptop, in its disuse, unable to connect to the world as frequently as I had been used to.

I looked down at my pen, my paper and I wrote a letter to a dear friend. It was eight pages long. I can't remember the last time I wrote a letter that long. I read over all of the details I normally omit with technology. I described scenes, places, scents, and I felt life in the pages. I made the effort to go to the post office and mailed it out. It was the hard way, the personal way, and one that made me ache to write with more depth.

"My Little Town" has the best lyric about imagination...the colours are there...you just have to see them. We can't let our imaginations die because of lack...it isn't about trying to emulate someone else. No copies...just like the letter...it is an original.