Thursday, December 7, 2017

Quiet Ride

Reagan has hit the stage where there is no quiet. There is never any quiet.

She talks and talks and talks. She tells you everything that pops into her head, usually preceded with, "can I tell you something?"

NB: She is not asking because she wants permission. She asks so that she can make sure you are listening. She will repeat this question until you say yes.

She talks to me while she does her school work. She talks to me while she colors. She talks to me while she plays on her device of choice. She talks to me while she watches a show.  She talks to me when I'm in the shower, or when I'm struggling to open my eyes in the morning. She talks, literally, until the moment she loses consciousness and falls asleep.

It's not just me. If there is another human present, she will talk just as much to them. When we go to pick Madison up from dance and arrive early, she accosts every person in the waiting room.

"Why are you here? Who is your kid? Why is your kid in this class? Did you know I'm on mini team? Did you know that we're dancing a jazz dance? Do you know that I get to do a heel stretch? Did you know we finished it this week?"

Mind you, she's not telling me, or anyone, things that are crucial and require interruption. I've yet to hear her say, "Can I tell you something? I believe the house is on fire," or "Can I tell you something? Madison's been missing for a few hours now."

It's stream of consciousness.

It's five.

But, man, do I long for the days when a car ride lulled her to sleep within minutes.

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