Paper

We are coming to the time in Auralia's life where she's beginning to take pride in her accomplishments, and can vocalize or demonstrate that she wants nothing more than our pride in her as well.

She's so funky, this child of ours. A mix of Jeremey and I, so completely and undeniably ours. She seems to have taken bits and pieces of both of us to meld perfectly into Auralia.

My child of hope.

Auralia hands me paper every day. Every hour. Sometimes it seems like every minute. Parts of the day are spent coloring outside the lines, learning the alphabet or recognizing shapes. I draw heads and stick people, elephants and cows, giraffes, mice, barns, moons, bones, moose, and more. My artistic ability is growing by leaps and bounds. And she takes pride in coloring in their eyes, or ears, hair or boogers. She loves to draw boogers. She loves to draw sticks and circles that she calls hearts.

It makes me yearn.

Sometimes the need to express myself is overwhelming. And perhaps Auralia understands this more than most people.

The need to press pencil, pen, paintbrush or crayon to paper can consume me. The urge to tap a keyboard or to stroke piano keys is like a nicotine craving, sharp and serrated. And the urge should be so easy to fulfill.

How is it that these urges, these cravings and needs to express ourselves, that most women feel, get pushed aside? The same way we get so busy that we forget we need to pee, we toss aside our thoughts, feelings, and dreams because we're too busy to listen to ourselves.

Or we're too afraid to.

I want to write. Something that will move people. That will make people yearn, or their hearts swell, stomach's drop, eyes fill.

I want souls to quiver.

Maybe it starts now. Maybe it starts with Auralia holding up a notebook and a crayon to me and saying, "Paper, Mama."