The Desire to Communicate

The other day I took my one year old daughter, Rosie, with me to run errands.  The black top steamed and the Texas air was thick with humidity.  Rosie cried and squirmed in my arms.

"Settle down, Rose Pose," I said, "We're almost ready to go home.  Just one more store and then we're through."


She yelled bloody murder.  


"Calm down," I said.


She scrunched her nose and frowned.  Then she blew-as if she was blowing out her birthday candle-onto my cheek.  Or as if I was blowing onto her hot bowl of oatmeal at breakfast.  ("Hot! Hot!" Blow.  Blow.  Is how it usually goes.)  Finally it dawned on me, poor little Rosie was hot.  

"Oh, you're hot?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Me, too, baby girl," I said and kissed her cheeks.  I reached into my purse and pulled out her sippy cup.

"Mmm," she said, kicking her chubby little feet and letting me know that water was just what she needed to cool down (and the ice cold air-conditioning in Target helped, too. I'm sure.)

Just like a baby struggling to tell me she is hot. I struggle to communicate through my stories.  Questions go through my mind as I rewrite, "What was I really trying to say here?"  and sometimes I just say, "Huh?!"  Especially when I find a half written paragraph to nowhere.  But each time I rewrite I get closer to what I really want to say.

From our first cries that say "LEAVE ME ALONE!" to our final words as we die, everybody desires to communicate.  Everybody wants to be understood.

I'm rewriting now, so don't talk to me.  Leave me alone.  I'm trying to communicate. :)