Hi Britney--welcome, and, any trite thing I could say to make you feel better probably wouldn't, so I'll shut up on that matter.
On another matter, check out what Sister Mena talks about on her blog today. I don't want to say, um, she has an unusual proclivity toward melting, but frankly, wow--melting stuff with lite brites? And your vaporizer? It makes me want to run quickly through my house finding things my daughter might use as firestarters. But then, I think it's the proclivity that makes the Mena child special. Her urge to melt. And don't we--and all our children--have those special urges?
For my daughter, as it was for me, it's carving, picking, and drawing. I remember the day I forgot what I was doing and, at 4, carved my name into our wonderful hardwood floors. Wonderful because they were hardwood, wonderful because they were expensive, and wonderful because I loved the way the wood gave way under the butter knife if I pressed hard enough. Some how, the bare wood showing "J-E-N-E-A-N-E" wasn't enough. Color. I needed color. And so, in a move that made perfect sense, I got food coloring from the kitchen, stealth mode, and brought it carefully to my bedroom, the scene of the crime, and began to paint color into each letter. It made so much sense until I was done. Then the fear crept up my spine, robbing me of the moment when I should have been admiring my creation--"Ugh oh. That's the thing I wasn't supposed to do. I am in big, big trouble."
That's where parents make a big mistake--and it's something I always remember. If it's not pre-conceived, it's manslaughter, not murder. My food-color-hardwood-floor antics, and my mattress and twin sheet drawings that followed--were never deliberate. They were what happened when I wasn't paying attention, except to my inner voice. The voice that said, "Wouldn't it be wonderful if..."
And that's the voice that keeps me blogging.
Mena melts; Jeneane draws, carves and colors.