Command

The baby is a few weeks shy of two, and it shows. "Have a cookie!" he yells, and you might mistake it for a hostessy offer, but no, he is commanding his mother to give him a cookie. "Have walk on road!" "Eat cereal!" "Wuca, no, my tea!" "Watcha movie!" "Have a banket!" "No diaper, go away!" He is no shrinking violet; Barno is loud of voice and firm of opinions. The earliest talker of my three boys, his requests and demands (really, there's no difference) are loud and emphatic and usually, thankfully, clear, because if we take longer than a moment to understand his desires he is likely to underscore his words with flailing limbs and voluminous tears. My last child. My final stumble through the world of two. My baby who is no longer a baby. Love you, baby. "Have a nap!"
~a


With Mother's Day last Sunday and my birthday tomorrow, this is the week to hear the sweetest phrase: your wish is my command. If only this were true. World Peace, less dependency on electronic media and technology, children everywhere clothed and fed. Or maybe something simpler: a cup of tea, a good book, sunshine, and a place to curl up and enjoy them all. But homework, housework, and Library work beckon. The word Command has such militaristic connotations. A command is harshly delivered in an imperative tone. I've only heard them barked at me when I marched in the band in high school, and when I attended dog training classes. But a wish, aaaah, they hold desire and passion; secret thoughts floating on the wind like dandelion fluff. What wish burns inside you - be it as intense as fireworks or birthday candle bright?
~b