Learning to playfully change the subject when it’s clear our Sizzlers are about to meltdown…is a dance.
Learning to artificially lower our voice to a really calm and quiet level to avoid further raising their excitability…is a dance.
Learning to hold them tightly when their sobs are so deep they fill them with spasms…is a dance.
And saying for the 89th just how wonderful their piano piece is even though you said it on time 88 and 87 and 86 such that you’re soooo ready to throw The Happy Birch Canoe and his Wigwam too…RIGHT out the window….is a dance.
I just LOVE these kids and all their energy.
I’m tired, but I love ’em.
But as our name implies…these kids Sizzle. They like everything about Sizzling. They like to hear the Sizzle, see the Sizzle and BE the Sizzle.
So imagine with me if you will, when I arise each morning to start the fire that will create the heat for our home for that day. I bring my little load of kindling over, my paper starter, my bits of cardboard, and my various sizes of wood, oak being preferred. I grab the same little stool I grab every morning and set up my station.
As the little flames begin to take hold, I now begin to wipe down the glass front to the fireplace insert.
I like to see my flames all day. It’s my thing.
But today, I notice a perfect circle on the front of the glass.
At first I suspect someone has take a magic marker and drawn on the glass…but no…the circle is perfect.
It almost looks like it was machine produced, so perfect it was.
I tried to rub it off but it was immovable. A solid, perfectly round little ridge on the outside of my window.
I asked first one child, then the next, when I finally landed upon my youngest, our Sizzler in residence.
Without the slightest hesitancy, she informed me that she had wanted to listen to the Sizzling flames.
I imagined her with her head stuck up to an empty can pressed against the glass, dangerously close to the glass that can reach hundreds of degrees.
“Oh no,” she glibly informs me. She had done no such dangerous thing.
Why…how could I even think such a thing about her?
She had listened with our stethoscope.
She ran and got me the wondrous (and not cheap) stethoscope we’d had owned for years only to show me the now completely melted circular piece that previously had carried the sound of many a heartbeat to my waiting ears.
No more. A rather Donald Duck sounding crackle was the best it could produce.
So “hearing the Sizzle” has new meaning, and I have a new dance step.
Don’t ever say that your child can no longer surprise you.
God will laugh and your surprise will come. (Wait till I tell you the butter story!)