Today you had a meltdown over the fact that the perfectly good plan that you had set into place (lying down on the bed and reading in peace) was annihilated by the presence of your three-year-old brother, who insisted on crowding you and trying to hang out with you. Also, to kick at you with his heels.
It was a meltdown of catastrophic proportions. It was Chernobyl. It was unfixable by any means and not even the privilege of being completely and luxuriously alone on Mama and Daddy's bed could alleviate your frustration. Not even a long cuddle. Your idea! It was so perfect! And it was taken out of your control, it was trodden on, ruined. That's it, start over, nighttime had better come soon because this day is has been flushed down the toilet.
I was reminded of two things. The first: What a trooper you are! How rarely, in this wild life of ours, do you melt down in any way. Your lovely, sensitive, artistic nature must at times threaten to rise up and choke you, you with your three brothers and the little space in your life for quiet. But you are so strong, always finding a way to make peace, a way to cut yourself a little corner of calm. And normally you are the very best with Solo. You help him with everything, you are giving and fierce and brave.
The second thing is that I can completely relate. I understand that curve that you turn around the mountain, when something that was going to be so cool! so good! so right! gets interrupted or smashed up and at that moment it feels unbearable that there is no rewind button. No way to make the imperfect disappear no reset button on the day. The day can now only be tolerated. Senses have been overwhelmed, the yo-yo strings are zinging, the brothers are sniping, and all that will fix it is a good sleep and a new morning.
I just want to commiserate. I'm STILL trying to learn how to get reset after overload, my dear. And I try all my ideas on you. Music? A dark place? A book? A blankie? It's a crazy world we live in, little friend. Full of grocery stores and fluorescent lights. Somehow we'll make our way through.
You just turned eight. This has been a momentous year for you, the year of being seven! It started off with a train journey to Nepal. Caves, monkeys, a green lake. A month without Daddy, a trip to Thailand, a couple of jaunts to Burma. Then we made the big decision to move here, to make a new life in Thailand, leaving behind your beloved Arambol. You love everything you see, Beautiful. All along the way you make friends and turn the shower of affection on, and when you see stars and skies, you really SEE them.
You are pensive.
And goofy. From second to second, nothing with you is the same.
You told me a story recently. You were at our friend Rani's tipi camp. Daddy was playing music and you were sitting and talking with a new friend of yours, a grownup girl from Germany. The moon was full. "The music," you said, "the music and the moon and the fire was there too. We talked and talked and looked at the sky, with the coconut trees and the moon and the music was playing..." You sighed a big sigh, telling me. "It was SO beautiful. It was the best night of my life."
I don't think God could have given me anything in life that is more special than the kids he gave me. I love you, YaYa darling. I love you with all of my heart.
(I put the camera on continuous shutter to try to take a good photo of you, but your face changes from instant to instant and in the end I had about a hundred different expressions. Here are a few of them.)