My son doesn’t say much. He knows maybe ten words, but uses two of three. None of those is mama. I don’t compare him to my daughter who knew probably 50 words at the same age. I try not to compare him to his cousin who knows several dozen and is beginning to string small sentences. He likes music but doesn’t sing. He’s got rhythm though. He rocks and bounces, grunts to a beat.
Sometimes life seems disappointing because you are looking for music. You don’t hear the tune and the melody seems non-existent in the craziness of motherhood and the chaos of daily life. But if we are still for a moment we can feel the rhythm. The quick staccato of anticipation of exciting coming changes. The slow drum beat of the seemingly monotonous days, driving us ever forward. The slap of chubby hands on the furniture and the rumble of four little feet echoing through my house. The rhythm of these days may seem never ending, but sometimes when I listen closely there are subtle changes. The steps become more sure, the thumps of falls fewer, the cries of impact replaced by the grunt of exertion to stand again. The melody is not exactly what I expected, but I’m learning to enjoy the rhythm.