Your dad was jealous of your sleep. Your little baby dreams. Because weeks before you would smile at him, you would only smile during naps. It was often after your mom put you into a "milk coma." After those tug-of-war matches between you and the breast that feeds. The latch versus the detach. The gulp versus the yelp. Once it was all over but for the shouting, full tummy bulging sideways, spreading your cinnamon-swirl bellybutton, you'd sleep, and you'd smile. Half of your lifetime ago, your sleeping subconscious seemed to know how to smile before your waking conscious caught on.
So now, your lips curved unmistakably upward, cheeks lifted in giddy appreciation, your mom and dad stand there next to the Table of Awareness, mouths open, eyes searching, wondering if those smiles truly are for them. Modest in many respects, they don't want to accept a smile they didn't earn. Don't want to hog credit for happiness they didn't bestow. Until you gurgle or bleat some note of unabashed recognition or speak some vowel sound between those relentless hiccups. Then your mom and dad allow that brazen baby tone of acknowledgment to seep through their tentative dispositions. And they smile back.
Only a week ago your arms would waver and shake, like an orchestral conductor over some galloping tune, as the words bubbled up inside of you. Now your arms move with greater deliberation, chopping back and forth like a Tae Kwon Do kata. And when your mom or dad places a finger in your palm, your fingers clasp like anemones, only letting go if the words splay your fingers in different directions. And your mom and dad hope you know that their smiles are yours.
