Look at that face! Seriously. LOOK AT THAT FACE!
I had to throw something for work on a flash drive, and grabbed the first one I laid my mitts on. When I got to the office the following morning, I found a huge stash of picture files as I’d begun to transfer my data. And keeping true to thine own self–squirrel!! shiny squirrel–I paused to stroll down memory lane. Yes, conservative tax payers, YOU paid my salary while I pissed the time away on your dime. Get over it because trust me, over the years, the school district wins handily in the “hours I’ve actually worked vs. the hours for which I’ve been paid” equation. Clearly I was working at home, which is the whole reason I needed the flash drive. See?? My big kid was about 1-1/2 here, and Izzy was not only still with us, but also hadn’t even begun her mid-life spread. She was such a good dog, you just don’t even know. But look at my kid, now taller than me and only 10 pounds (seven on a good day) less than me. His eyes were still blue, his hair still baby-blonde, and those cheeks!
When he was a baby and through his toddlerhood, you could see him smile from behind. He had these biscuit cheeks and that sweet, sweet baby giggle that makes your heart melt and eyes water with pure delight. When he smiled big, you could tell from behind–you could see the contour of his face change. Wiser, better-aware parents might have been more keenly tuned into what those cheeks might’ve meant. Not us. We were so in love with this visage and the little goof wearing it, that it portended neuromuscular disease never crossed our minds. What’s that they say about hindsight? So, so many things become abundantly clear in retrospect. This old jpeg is proof. How I loved that face then. And now. *sigh*
I like to pretend, because generally speaking I’m delusional which I think we’ve established already here, that influential people can magically make happen the crazy notions ping-ponging around my gray matter. That someone, somewhere on high finds my story so gripping, that he face palms himself (or she herself) muttering, “Holy crap–we need to give this woman a job where no one is a turd, everyone is kind, and that, ahem, doesn’t really exist for someone with no real skills outside speech-language pathology. And how ’bout we cure that kid’s disease? What have we been doing not to have noticed this yet? My bad, Wendy, we’ll get right on it.” Wouldn’t it be cool if they could read my mind and make it so? I’m not asking for a pony here, just world peace and a cure for disease. That’s all. I mean, that face! How can the universe deny it?