Tick Tock

Tick Tock


Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. We wait with baited breath but of course we must exhale. We wait again. It’s been over a month and nary a one. I had so hoped “Da da” would flow out and it didn’t, hasn’t, doesn’t. It’s hard to hope and have silence dash your deep rooted desires. Really hard. It doesn’t mean never but it does mean, more time, waiting, patience and in that, I am struggling to seek joy. I’m stumbling today as I wait on the words.

Words. Talking. Mumbling. Babbling. Jabbering. Exclaiming. Shrieking. Whispering. I would take any or all and all of the above. Just something, something to let me know his needs and wants, communicate with the voice that is hidden so far away most of the time. The words he has are used rarely so it’s not just his tongue that is to blame. No, he says “out” if desperate to flee the ocean’s surf and he says “Mama” when he rises in the morning or from a nap. It is said with joyful excitement, pure glee, the most beautiful type of intonation but never as a query, with annoyance, a plea. There was that one time he had been crying quite a while that he called for me but never again do I want him to feel forgotten, abandoned, not even if it means a reward, the language I crave desperately.

How can he not say “da-da” my heart screams? It does. Inside I rage, writhe, shake my fists. At whom, you may ask? For whom, you may wonder? I don’t know really but I guess for me. That’s selfish, I realize, but honest. There is no denying it and the words I write again and again circle around this theme. Perhaps the thoughts of a mad man or maybe, just a panic stricken heart sick mama. I write and purge and write again, a verbal bulimia. Though the old me longs to silence those thoughts, I let them run through the brave me. To acknowledge cleanses the soul, I remind myself. To confront my fears is the valiant choice though I really just wish it would all go away. Not Amos, but the web that entraps him and perhaps me.

The cocoon of Amos is a beautiful one though and worth the risk of angst and fear bolts, both striking so often that they are more whirling in my mind than they are not. I’m not willing to pretend, not for my husband, my children, our families, dear friends. I just can’t put on my game face this time. My 15 year old self will tell you quite emphatically that strategy is fruitless. And so, I will wear my heart on my sleeve and when the fear grips me, I will not grin and bear it, but will choose joy and tell my truths.

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