Flitter, flitter here, flitter flatter there. I have a toddler butterfly around the house. Today she flittered everywhere, between ducks in the park and crayons in the bathroom. Imagination unfolds as I see her in endless chit chatter with herself and the play she is engaged in, hard at work.
Flitter flitter, little girl.
I am less graceful. I am more of the "trying-not-to-trip-over-small-objects-and-toys-as-I-tend-to-ten-things-at-once." Not to mention, let's not trip over the flittering creature going to and fro, oblivious to my ten things all at once.
I know I am becoming quite notorious for saying this - but I can't help myself, forgive me - this mothering thing is befuddling, befuddling! That is why I find myself talking in Dr. Seussian code and rhyme. The mysteries that lie behind this state of procreating, or rearing, of nurturing…I witness love and vulnerability so closely everyday it makes my heart hurt, for the tenderness, but also for the potential for hurt. There is so much potential for hurt out there for the pure of heart. It is this vulnerability that melts me and makes me want to hide away when I look at the world. But she also teaches me about courage, which does come from the heart - the coeur. Vulnerability would be null without the heart that declares, I am here, I am here, beating, give me your starving, your poor, your delights and your butterflies!
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