Something Like Love Language

A child, a child, in fact, who both should and desperately needs to be napping is currently crying and hollering at me through the walls, up the stairs, and along the vents between her room and mine. Of course someone is usually crying around here. One might suppose I’d be conditioned to such sounds. And, what do I know? Maybe I am. What do I remember exactly about who I was as the mother of one child compared to who I am now – as the mother of nine? Perhaps it affects me less. But certainly not . . . less enough because several days ago I was in such a state of . . . well . . . I’m not even sure what one calls it -- exhaustion, madness, apathy, despair, illogic (???) (brought on – likely by lack of sleep and a host of demands – but ignited by a day of said sounds) that Mike, seeing something must be done, . . . filled the van with “stuff” and dropped it off at the DI.

The whole business stopped my downward spiral – switching me to a state of bewildered awe. How did Mike know that would solve the problem? As far as my logic had permitted, nothing would solve the problem! The problem was life! All of it! But this gesture – which seemed so unrelated to the frustrations of the day, but was so utterly perfect -- stopped my self-pitying in its speedy little tracks. And I realized, again, that this pesky little business of living . . . is very often rather lovely. (Particularly when one has a Mike divining their needs and speaking the complex and shifting love languages one hardly knew they had.)

(Abe appears to be tossing someone off the walking bridge in this pic.)

(And what, pray tell, is Abe about in this picture???)(Hansie! Come back! You’re still rather small – even if you can walk and even if you do have a hair cut!)