I passed over my blogging year anniversary without recognizing it, I forgot.  What I started a year ago, has become what I see it as now.  I lost track of time, easy to do as a parent, easy to do as a non-parent, our heads taught to swivel at mutated owl speed to soak in all of everything always – none of those concepts function in the real world.  We equip ourselves with enough information to look normal, normal to those we associate with, which is why associating with people who are different from us can have its advantages.  Funny how it seems that we are more ourselves when around people who appear different from us, is that expectations, self expectations that allow us to just be and not perform.  Standing on a stage facing nodding heads with drooled out grins is quite unsatisfying.  I like strange looks and follow-up questions, barbed wire handshakes and whispering fans.  I like the opposite as well, and as I posit this thought I know it’s not my only reality (which means I’m not really positing), but fun to think that people are considering who they are to you as you examine why you are to them and then come to the conclusion that no one really cares that much.  I used to think people were concerned, not really, or is it not necessary to hold on to something for hours for it to be material? Can we hear it and move on, letting – the getting out of irrational thoughts that will plague our minds if left inside to bounce around – alone.

So, as I reflect on a year of blogging, I must recognize a person who doesn’t hit the spotlight of these posts, a person who stands opposite me on the scale-of-insanity that is life, the person who rarely judges, often listens, and supports with more gusto than Bette Midler could ever sing about.  At the risk of sounding trite, gushing too much, or otherwise falling victim to the pitfalls that show themselves when expressing your feelings about loved ones, I will sum up Robespierre (yes, that is the name she chose) with a story.

We were listening to classical music, which sounds a lot like fairy music and makes one want to dance like a ballerina.  After hearing the first notes, the girls rushed to get their princess outfits, and came back in the room twirling, leaping, and prancing about.  I was suddenly overcome with the desire to join them, I didn’t hold back, I swan leapt, pirouette, and lost myself in the moment, my eyes were closed as I tippy-toe moved, the Russian groove.  When I came out of my trance (“Daddy, you’re not a ballerina”) I was met with Robespierre staring at me.  I was expecting laughter. The next words out of her baffled mouth “Wow, you are really good.  You should really take ballet lessons.  Have you ever wanted to be a ballerina?” Sincere. Ready to sign me up.

Now, I know I will never be a ballerina, or the male equivalent, and deep down inside I really have no idea what Robespierre thinks.  What I do know is that she would support/believe in anything that I wanted to do.  To me, that quality, the ability to love and entirely believe in another person, sums Robespierre up, and is the reason that we are able to function the way we do for our kids and one another.  Yes, there are the crazy, insane, hard times that pass through the stream of selfless and selfish moments that make a house home and family normal, but behind every quip, attempt at wit, writing fit, key I hit, there is an incorruptible French man with a sense of humor.

Bien que n’étant pas toujours mentionné ou nommé, rien de tout cela n’existerait pas sans elle.

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