It’s Monday morning, and I’m getting dressed for work. I am not alone. I have to get up early to have alone time. Otherwise I have a shadow named Squeezy, a shadow who could be the picture on Wikipedia for the word inquisitive. She floods me with a constant stream of questions–
Is that your dwess, Mommy? Can I wear it? Why? I climb up on your bed, Mommy. Are those your tights? They’re black. Can I have tights? I have socks. Can I jumpy jumpy on your bed? Where are your glasses? Do you have boots, Mommy? Do they have buckles? Can I have them, Mommy? Do you need to go potty? I don’t need to. Where’s Bear? Why? Is this your pillow? Is it my pillow? Is it Daddy’s pillow? Daddy’s at work! No. Daddy’s downstaiws! Do we love Daddy? Do you have a sweater, Mommy? Is it so warm and cozy? We not going to church today. No ma’am. We going to Hy-Vee. No. Are you going to work, Mommy? Mommy not need to!
On and on she goes, not noticing that I am barely answering, that I am in a fog, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep on the bed she is jumping on. She follows me into the bathroom while I comb my hair.
Is this a comb? Is that your toofbrush? Can I brush my teeth, Mommy? Why? I don’t need to go potty. That’s the baftub. Can I take a baf? Why? We don’t play in the potty. Are you combin’ your hair, Mommy? I don’t need to comb my hair.
It’s like this most of the time. She simply must know what’s going on, and she must comment on it. When we listen to music, she needs to know the name of every song.
What’s dis song, Mommy?
“I don’t know” is not an acceptable answer.
Most of the time I am just used to her chattering, and I answer her questions until I start to twitch, then I tell her to go find her brothers and play with them. I’m sure the boys really appreciate that. Her voice is just a part of the soundtrack of my life– the very loud soundtrack.
It’s Tuesday night and we’re on our way home from the store. I am listening to music (what’s dis song, Mommy?) and contemplating the joy of bedtime, which waits just inside the door of our house. From the back seat, I hear her little voice . . .
‘Cause what if Your blessings come through raindwops?
What if Your healing comes through teaws?
I sing along with her to the end of the song, and we pull into the driveway.
I like to sing with you, Mommy.
My life might have a noisy soundtrack, but it sure is a good one.