Whenever I first considered writing this blog, it took me
seconds to come up with a name for it. I
sat on the couch writing down my frustrations of the day in my notebook - for
some reason writing them down makes coming up with solutions to correct them
easier. Connor and Ava were at my feet
playing with her Littlest Pet Shop Toys. He tossed them onto her lap and called
them grenades. The Pet Shop animals were
at war, and she didn’t like this. “Connor,
sometimes little girls don’t like to play the same things that little boys
play.” He thought about this. “Well what do they play? Does she want to
hear me sing?”
Connor never
sings. The morning before his first
preschool holiday program he announced to me that he would not sing, just
pretend to. He went on to explain that
my mom showed him how to say “watermelon, watermelon” over and over again so
that no one would no one would know he wasn’t really singing. When he asked if Ava wanted to hear him sing,
I said yes, because it’s what I
wanted.
He scooped the Pet
Shop toys off of her lap, put his elbows on her where they had been, and began.
“You
are my sunshine. My only sunshine. You make me happyyyyy when skies are gray. You’ll never know ABUHHH how much I love you.
So please don’t take my sunshine away.” He
backed off of her legs and looked at me, but I was staring at her staring at
him, eyes wide open and her face smiling.
“There. Is she happy now?” he asked, right before igniting the Pet Shop
grenades again.
I thought about
the Freudian affect. How we say things we mean but don’t mean to say it. Why did the boy who cares nothing for music
or lyrics pick that song to sing to her? To hear him sing it to her was intriguing.
He loves her, and I know this.
A couple of weeks
into blogging, my husband teased me over this title. “Am I not your sunshine, also?” I got what he meant – it did sound a little
bad if you think about it that way. I
told him about Connor singing the song to her.
He understood. He knows that I
couldn’t imagine life without him and our boys.
He knows I love and need them like I never expected to love and need
another. But you know what? I might have
been experiencing some Freudian nonsense, too, because there is only one sun in
our solar system, and she became mine the second God gave me the responsibility
of her.
I’m sketchy on
facts about the sun, but I do know this: The sun has rays that grow us, warm
us, and complete us. It gives us energy
to live. It gravitates planets to be
pulled around it. The sun spills over
with energy absorbed by plants, consumed by animals – the process continues. We grow because of this sun. Ava makes us all grow. I can hear that in the words you all write to
me about her. I was dying without the
responsibility and life she brought to me, when God allowed me to pass life to her. I really don’t even like to remember my
mindset before then. The sun has a core,
in which the power of fusion occurs and causes it to shine. Ava’s core is God. He makes her glow, and we all feel the warmth. The sun has blemishes, also, dark spots that thousands
of years ago the Chinese mistook to be birds flying in front of it. We don’t know why these sunspots exist. Ava has blemishes, spots of imperfection that
come in the form of seizures, and other disabilities, so incredibly visible to
the naked eye yet we don’t know why she was created with them.
I don’t know what
the sun needs to exist. I just know I need the sun.
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