“Shhhhhh,” I say.
“We’re right here,” I remind.
“Maybe you could hum a different song?” I suggest.
“Alright, alright, take a breath and then tell me; it sounds awesome,” I interrupt.
I hear myself making them small.
I hear myself asking them to shrink for my comfort.
I hear myself limiting them, insisting that they be aware of how others feel, asking them to read the room.
I hear myself asking them to mind other people’s business rather than relying on other people to tell them when enough is enough.
I hear myself making them fit in better.
And then I stand back and I just look at them.
They are miracles. They are miracles of science. They are miracles of nature. They are miracles of stardust and happenstance, extraordinary timing and good fortune. There will never be another like either of them, much less both at the same time but two minutes apart. “I see two butts Julia. Which shall I take out first?”
They will never be again. They will never be just as they are in this moment again. Perhaps I can do more to face my own discomfort, to inquire of it and release it so that they can just be and grow strong in trusting the universe to hold the magic that they are in every single minute.
I will try harder to let them be as big and miraculous as they are, even if sometimes it takes my breath and makes me cry in the best possible way.
I will try harder to show them that it’s okay to be big. It’s okay to fill a space. It’s okay to trust that others will be themselves. It’s okay to feel like a miracle.
As for you? I want you to know that you can be big too. You can fill a space without shrinking or apologizing. You can repeatedly sing the theme to The Pirates of the Caribbean if that’s your thing. You can pirouette across my kitchen and land on me with a hug because you are a miracle. You will never be in this moment, just as you are, again. Trust me with your bigness and I’ll try to do the same; we’ll spray glitter all over the place.