"...Tell me what you're thinking - I will write it in the sky..."
This line - from a song I actually find quite the gay - actually touched me this afternoon.
Because:
We showed our baby boy his first bubbles - and his reaction is one I cannot begin to capture through word - though the Kerouac in me tells me to.
His eyes lit up like candles when first hit by a freshly struck match and he squealed with such delight I thought he might come out of his diaper.
He laughed and laughed making us laugh and laugh.
Bubbles.
Simple and foolish.
Cheap and easy.
Is it any wonder our children find us magical beings for the majority of their young lives?
We feed them, keep them warm, sing to them, laugh with them, create magic (varying as it may be, it is such simple magic ladybugs on the finger, bubbles bursting on the nose, a quick butterfly eyelash kiss on the cheek) remove them from discomfort and pain, we put them to rest, we comfort and soothe, we erase all signs of a declining society.
We are the Power Rangers.
As parents.
It is the time when all we do is bring joy and peace.
When they are babies.
When all we do seems untouchable and magical.
It is not something Billy Joel would sing about.
I say this because I love Pandora.com but some days it throws some madness into the effing mix.
And right now it has fucked me with the Billy Joel.
To understand you must go.
www.pandora.com
************************************************************
See heres the thing.
I am listening to some Indian rendition of suffering and how are meant to greet OUR maker.
Yes OUR.
I am also being inundated with the Catholic Saturday before Ester choir.
And in the chorus of all that I hear the Jewish Passover refrains.
This is a funny town we live in.
This line - from a song I actually find quite the gay - actually touched me this afternoon.
Because:
We showed our baby boy his first bubbles - and his reaction is one I cannot begin to capture through word - though the Kerouac in me tells me to.
His eyes lit up like candles when first hit by a freshly struck match and he squealed with such delight I thought he might come out of his diaper.
He laughed and laughed making us laugh and laugh.
Bubbles.
Simple and foolish.
Cheap and easy.
Is it any wonder our children find us magical beings for the majority of their young lives?
We feed them, keep them warm, sing to them, laugh with them, create magic (varying as it may be, it is such simple magic ladybugs on the finger, bubbles bursting on the nose, a quick butterfly eyelash kiss on the cheek) remove them from discomfort and pain, we put them to rest, we comfort and soothe, we erase all signs of a declining society.
We are the Power Rangers.
As parents.
It is the time when all we do is bring joy and peace.
When they are babies.
When all we do seems untouchable and magical.
It is not something Billy Joel would sing about.
I say this because I love Pandora.com but some days it throws some madness into the effing mix.
And right now it has fucked me with the Billy Joel.
To understand you must go.
www.pandora.com
************************************************************
See heres the thing.
I am listening to some Indian rendition of suffering and how are meant to greet OUR maker.
Yes OUR.
I am also being inundated with the Catholic Saturday before Ester choir.
And in the chorus of all that I hear the Jewish Passover refrains.
This is a funny town we live in.
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.