I have something to say...

Well, of course I do. I mean, this is the reason I am here, right? To say something. To make my voice heard. Because, oftentimes, I am not heard.

I know I have said it before, and yes I shall say it again, because repeating myself is becoming a deeply ingrained and fundamental part of my personality.

"Brother, put the crayon down. It is time to go."
"Brother, you can finish the picture later. Your brother is already in the car."
"Brother, come on baby, please. Mama doesn't want to be late."
"B R O T H E R! Put It Down! Let's GO! RAAAARRRRHHH!!!!"

*Big frustrated SIGH*

So, yes, I have something to say. And I need to say it over and over and over again.

Jelly Bean is beginning his journey to mama-deafness, the inability to hear my voice specifically. He has now come of an age where his little mitts are into everything. Mind, our house is not as baby proofed as the ones in the magazines. There was no crawling around on the floor to "get the baby's eye view." However, there is a lot of, "No, no Jelly. Play with this toy" as Mama wrestles the frayed electrical wiring and butcher knives out of his 10-month-old grip.

Mmmhmm, I have something to say.

So often I don't say it. Like the time when Brother was playing at McDonald's with two older children and they didn't ask him his name, but kept calling him "Asian boy." Their mother was sitting right there. How could I correct two children who weren't my own? My heart breaks and breaks that I didn't say, "Hey! His name is *insert proper name*. How would you like it if he kept calling you "White boy"? The learning moment I let pass by. The words I ate instead of showing my child I would protect him, no matter what public opinion might be. Next time I will say something. Because these unspoken words, years later, still hang on my arms and weigh down my soul.

I have something to say.

Something that I say often is, "I love you" to my children. I want to make sure they know each and every day that they are precious wonderful people. And that I love them with an intensity rivaling volcanic explosion or some other fiery natural phenomenon. I was holding my oldest, Brother, a big 6-year-old, and whispering sweet nothings in his ear at my parent's home this July 4th. My dad gave me a funny look and teased me a bit. But then I asked him, "If your mother had held you as often as she could and told you she loved you more than the sun and the moon and the stars in the sky, do you think you would have turned out differently?" He gave me another odd look and simply said, "Yes." Not that there is anything wrong with my father; he is a great father. But we could all do with a little extra love rained down on us. Drenching our clothing, seeping through our skin, and flowing into our hearts.