Last night, I decided it would be a good idea to make dumplings for dinner. I stood at the kitchen counter, my hands covered in flour as I rolled out the dumplings.
All around me, chaos unfolded.
Laila and Ceci ran around the kitchen, screaming and giggling as they chased one another.
"Slow down," I said, as I rolled out more dumplings.
Ceci looked at me and smiled and ran even faster. She danced and fell and got back up again and danced some more. She tried to climb ontop of the table, and when I tried to stop her, she paused for a moment and tried again, squealing with laughter.
The noise, the chaos, and the happiness associated with both continued. And normally, I would have already put a stop to it. But my heart wasn't in it yesterday -- not because I was exhausted or preoccupied with cooking or mentally drained, but because I was so thrilled to see her running and dancing and climbing.
Many months ago, a mother said to me that I was lucky because Ceci's hypotonia meant I didn't have to chase her around and stop her from getting into things. I knew she was coming from a good place when she made that comment, but it still hurt to hear those words.
I promised myself that IF Ceci ever walked, I would not complain about having to "chase" after her. And last night, it would have been easy to have done just that -- complain -- but I didn't.
I had a choice to make. I could complain. I could yell. I could ignore. Or, I could join in and celebrate the beauty of this chaos -- the beauty of Ceci's accomplishments.
So instead, I smiled, I laughed, I plopped my dumplings into a pot on the stove, and I ran with her --flour covered hands and all.