Slow, really nice and slow

Slow, really nice and slow
I  sometimes complain that life is rushed.And then I rush you.I complain everything is fast, and busy,And then I busy the life out of you.You do it so very well.
Living slow.The toothpick falls.

Slowly, you get of your chair. You crawl under the table and find not only the toothpick, but also a ball and a spoon. This delights you.

Your mouth curls into a mischievous, satisfied smile. Your cheeks deliciously go along, not wanting to miss out.

The cheese is lost.You check your t-shirt. Your pants. Your chair. And find it under the table a few minutes later.

Slowly, you push the chair away and I restrain myself from bending down to just do it for you. Your little fingers rub the cheese, relishing the texture. To me, it looks unappetizing. To you, it is a piece of gold.

I tell you to hurry up and finish eating.

You twist around on your chair in an everlasting dance, bumping your plate and your milk. All I can see is the possibility of spilled milk and all you see is the crumbs in the shape of an airplane.

Staring at the ceiling, you contemplate…something? You can’t and won’t find the words yet, to tell me what it was you were contemplating. I understand. Sometimes, saying something out loud can desecrate our sweet musings.

You laugh hysterically at your brother’s antics.

You tell me about the song you learned in school and all I feel is the headache pounding through me, getting worse with each shrill syllable coming out of your mouth, your little face animated like a piece of the sun, right next to me.

Every few minutes, you remember to take a bite.

You wiggle around on your knees.
Drink a sip of milk and smile at me with eyes that use every possible wrinkle and line and dimple to show they are smiling, too.

And although the headache doesn’t leave, you remind me that there’s not only a headache. There’s the story you want to tell me later, and your sandwich now looks like a dragon with a hat. Later, we’ll get a cookie and in your head you can still hear the song that the teacher taught you.

Your nose scrunches up. It’s smiling, too.

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