A Story To Belong

Learning takes place most fully when one takes what she has heard or experienced and creates some type of response. So here are my poetic responses to a recent 17 minute devotion/Bible study/sermon. Enjoy.

Stupid
1.30.12

I’ve heard it said,
“We are all just one step away from stupid.”
I’d agree with that statement except for this:
Some of us aren’t just a step away.
Some of us are already there.

A Story To Belong
1.30.12

The more I think about it,
the more certain I am that
we all just want to be part of
a narrative we support and
believe in.

The more I think about it,
the more positive I am that
we all just want a story
in which we belong--
a physical,
emotional,
mental, and
spiritual
place of being where
we exist peacefully and comfortably,
even if that comfort is felt as
discomfort to someone else.

The more I think about it,
the more clear I am that
I cannot understand the depth of
creation and
how God can love all of God’s created when
we live in so many contradicting stories and
interpretations of the same story that is
said to be the
greatest story ever told.

On This Winding Journey

I am
me.

I love deeply and for eternity.
Places, dates, songs, and pictures release memories that
repeat themselves in my mind.
I remember details and feel revisit emotions
as vividly as when they first happened.

I wear my heart on my sleeve.
When I hurt,
it takes me a very long time to heal and let go.
When I cry,
the tears are gut-wrenchingly deep,
as if I am crying tears for the world—
past, present, and future.

I am gracious–
But not so gracious with myself.
I despise those things that make me me
and thrust contemptuous impatience onto my soul
for the winding journey to peace through grief
that I know progresses as its own pace.

I am:
Me.
I am:
Trying.
And one day soon,
Peaceful,
Non-perfect,
Acceptance…

It will be so.

The Curse Of The N

The first time I saw my new counselor/spiritual director, Nancy, in Columbia, she waved her hands in the air in a fluid yet somewhat chaotic motion when trying to reflect back what she was hearing in my words. She immediately recognized that my brain has the tendency to try to connect together everything—past, present, and projected future—in my life. I can hear a song today and think of a specific time when I heard the same song 20 years ago. I can pass a location tomorrow and remember every detail—sights, sounds, smells, actions, and emotions—of visiting the location five years ago. And it’s not just that I remember. I re-live, re-feel, and re-experience, all the while trying to live, feel, and experience the present so that I can move into my future as a healthy human being. Nancy’s hand motions that day were a perfect description what must be inside my brain—fluid chaos—and I’ve come to call that fluid chaos the curse of the N.

I am an N on the Myers Briggs Personality Type indicator. We N’s take in information with intuition. We don’t stop at the five senses—sight, smell, touch, taste, and sound—rather we subconsciously, unintentionally, and without trying absorb our surroundings with a sixth sense that causes us to try to connect the dots and assign meaning to the dots rather than to see the dots for what they are—dots. We N’s see the big picture rather than the parts that make up the picture. We live in theory and concept and possibilities of what the world could be based off of what the world has been. And when we N’s process all of our N-ness through the filter of feeling, like me, we live in a world where everything that ever happens needs to fall in line with harmonious relationships and when it doesn’t, then, well, the world is just not right.

I’m glad that I’m an N. Don’t get me wrong. But as one of my friends emphatically declared over the weekend, “Nothing is safe!” with me. No date, location, name, TV show, movie, book, or anything else I’ve experienced is immune from re-living or being projected forward. When the re-living is positive and the memories end in happy relationships, then all is well in my world. But when the re-living is sad, hurtful, angry, or a reminder of broken relationships, then all is not well in my world. For instance:

I was watching Cold Case re-runs the other night. The characters were hurting and feeling grief because of a deep betrayal. I suddenly found myself in gut-wrenching tears for every time I have been betrayed and for every other person in the world who has felt that same, terrible feeling. I suddenly felt a wave of deep emotion for the tremendous amount of hurt in this world and all I wanted to do was fix it. But I couldn’t do a thing at that moment because the characters on Cold Case aren’t real and I was already in my pajamas. So I just cried and prayed and laid out my clothes for the next day and put myself to bed…

…knowing that sometimes sleep is the only way to temporarily stop the curse of the N.

Do you, by any chance, understand the curse of the N?

The Parental Non-Parent

We didn’t have a camera crew following us around to film an episode of House Hunters, but my best friend and I did look at a lot of houses and have a lot of House Hunters-ish conversations when she decided that it was time for her to become a homeowner a few years ago. Once she decided on and purchased her house, I fulfilled my friend-ly duty of helping prepare the house for her arrival and helping her move. I’ve visited the house many times and for many reasons since that move, but I had a new experience yesterday as I approached the front door and heard a tiny baby’s cry. After her husband greeted me with a huge papa-like hug, I laid eyes on my best friend’s baby for the first time. She was beautiful. And all I could think was, “She made that…”

Around the time of the aforementioned move, I had the privilege of leading worship for one week of Acteens camp. My best friend was actually there with me. We used to sing together. During our time at camp, we worked with a group of aspiring guitar players and taught them to play a song for worship. Two years later, I re-crossed paths with one of those aspiring guitar players and sat in awe as she led worship for the retreat I was attending. That re-acquaintance began a beautiful friendship that has resulted in countless hours of theological discussions, music, laughter, and golf cart rides. I sang in her wedding a couple of years ago and attended her and her husband’s baby’s gender-reveal party yesterday. With tears of joy in my eyes, I watched video footage of the baby growing in her belly and I stood in awe of the fact that I will have the privilege of being part of another baby’s existence in this world…

From my writing from a couple of weeks ago, I think it’s obvious that I love my niece and nephews very much. Over the weekend, I was able to see all five of them, and I laughed with and loved on each of them until I felt my heart overflowing with a love so deep that it cannot be expressed…

I don’t know what it’s like to be a parent. But I know what it is to love. And I know how it feels to watch the people I love attempt to grow into the individuals God has created them to be…

So a few years ago, before the house, before the group of aspiring guitar players, before most of my nephews and niece were born, I wrote a song to express my love for my youth when I knew that God was calling me away. For some reason, the song turned very parental…

I find myself singing this song again today, especially the chorus…to my best friend’s beautiful girl, and my guitar-playing friend’s baby in utero, and my Jack and Henry and Griffin and Charlie and Amelia…and to you, my friends and family members, whom I so deeply love and in whom I so deeply believe…

Your First Day
© 2004 D. Deaton

Time moves so fast
Life changes so much
It was just yesterday
You let go of my touch
And went to school for your first day
Of Kindergarten

Now look at you,
You’re all grown up
Ready to face this world
On your own
I’ve done my best—given all I can
I hope that it’s enough

I hope that you know how much I care
That you know life is a journey to share
No matter where you go or what you do
My love will be true

I want to hold on
But I know I can’t
I must once again
Let go of that hand
And trust the God who changed my life
By placing you in it

Love is not love
Unless given a choice
I pray you choose wisely
Listen to that voice
Instilled in you—cheering for you
Through joys and sorrows

I pray that you know that I believe in you
That you know that God believes in you, too
No matter where you go or what you do
Our love will be true

Time moves so fast
Life changes so much
It was just yesterday
You let go of my touch
And went to school for your first day
Of Kindergarten

Two

I just figured out how to see the statistics of this blog. I am averaging two readers and zero comments per post. If you are one of those readers, thank you for reading. I will confess that I get discouraged in my writing. But I will try to keep writing...for you...and for me.

Bull Tears

Last Saturday morning (1.14.12), I had the privilege of visiting Birmingham’s Civil Rights Museum with my friend and fellow WMU student consultant, Julie. Before entering the museum, Julie and I walked a downtown trail that includes a number of stops to educate the walker on the key players of “Project C.” The trail ends at a state landmark commemorating the Freedom Riders ride into Birmingham.

One of the key players in the Birmingham’s Civil Rights was Bull Connor. Disgusted by what I had learned about Bull, I decided to do some more research on his life. I am relieved to report that it doesn’t appear as if Bull were a Christian—relieved not because of thoughts of eternity but because I cannot fathom how any Christian could treat humanity with the blatant disrespect and disregard that he did (though I know that many Christians do)—and am not surprised to report that a difficult childhood combined with the taste of power is not a good combination.

Here is a snippet of what I read about Bull, The Freedom Riders, and Project C on Wikipedia. Much of this information is contained in the downtown trail and within the walls of the Civil Rights Museum:

…By that Sunday on Mother’s Day the Freedom Riders arrived in Birmingham. This was after a rough experience in Anniston, Alabama where one of their buses had been firebombed and burnt down in an act of violence by members of the Ku Klux Klan. A new Greyhound bus then left for Birmingham, unknowingly containing KKK members that boarded the bus and beat the Riders, leaving them semi-conscious in the back. As they reached the terminal in Birmingham, a large mob of white Klansmen and news reporters were waiting for them.

The riders and some reporters were beaten viciously with metal bars, pipes and bats until, after fifteen minutes, the police finally arrived. No arrests were made at the scene, even though the police department and Connor knew the Riders were going to be there on that Sunday. Connor explicitly knew when the riders were set to arrive because of the exchange with King a week before. He purposely let the Klansmen beat the Riders for fifteen minutes with no police interference. Connor blamed this incident on many factors like, “No policemen were in sight as the buses arrived, because they were visiting their mothers on Mother’s Day”. Connor also insisted that the violence came from out-of-town meddlers and that police had rushed to the scene as quickly as possible.

He then issued this warning, “As I have said on numerous occasions, we are not going to stand for this in Birmingham. And if necessary we will fill the jail full and we don't care whose toes we step on. I am saying now to these meddlers from out of our city the best thing for them to do is stay out if they don't want to get slapped in jail. Our people of Birmingham are a peaceful people and we never have any trouble here unless some people come into our city looking for trouble. And I've never seen anyone yet look for trouble who wasn't able to find it”.

In 1962, Connor ordered the closing of sixty Birmingham parks rather than follow a court order to desegregate public facilities. After the failed attempt at the Albany movement, Martin Luther King and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference decided to put their efforts on the most thoroughly segregated city in the United States, Birmingham. It was called Project C (for "Confrontation"). The SCLC wanted to target the business section of Birmingham through economic boycott and demonstrations. Throughout April 1963 Martin Luther King led smaller demonstrations, which resulted in his arrest along with many others.

The final phase of Project C introduced a revolutionary and controversial new tactic that used young people in the demonstrations. On May 2, 1963, the first children came out and marched through the streets of Birmingham. By the end of the day 959 children ranging from ages 6–18 had been arrested. By May 3, massive amounts of demonstrators were participating and Connor ordered the use of fire hoses and attack dogs.

This didn’t stop the demonstrators, but generated bad publicity for Connor through the news media. The use of fire hoses continued for several days, and by May 7, Connor and the police department had jailed over three thousand demonstrators.

Due to problematic race relations and crippling economic status the SCLC and the Senior Citizens Committee, who represented a majority of Birmingham businesses, came to an agreement. On May 10, they agreed on the desegregation of lunch counters, restrooms, fitting rooms and drinking fountains, the upgrading and hiring of blacks, cooperation with SCLC legal representatives in releasing all jailed persons and the establishment of communication between black and whites through the Senior Citizens Committee.

Because of the attack on the Freedom Riders, Project C, and Birmingham’s worsening reputation, voters had become dissatisfied with Connor. In November 1962, when the voters of Birmingham decided to switch to a Mayor-Council form of government, Connor sued to have the election thrown out. On May 11, 1963, Connor was ordered to vacate his office following the Alabama Supreme Court decision in favor of a Mayor-Council government, ending his 22-year run as the Commissioner of Public Safety.

Thoughts? Reactions? Comments?

I cried.

From Birmingham (written 1.16.12)

Since I’m in Birmingham,
And since today is a holiday that honors
The life, work, and words of
Martin Luther King, Jr.,
I thought I’d share what I perceive to be
Some of the most powerful segments of the famous
“Letter From Birmingham Jail,”
Written 4.16.1963.

…We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct-action campaign that was "well timed" in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word "Wait!" It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This "Wait" has almost always meant "Never." We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that "justice too long delayed is justice denied.”

We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God-given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jet-like speed toward gaining political independence, but we stiff creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, "Wait." But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she can't go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son who is asking: "Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?"; when you take a cross-country drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading "white" and "colored"; when your first name becomes "nigger," your middle name becomes "boy" (however old you are) and your last name becomes "John," and your wife and mother are never given the respected title "Mrs."; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you go forever fighting a degenerating sense of "nobodiness"–then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait.

There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience…

…If I have said anything in this letter that overstates the truth and indicates an unreasonable impatience, I beg you to forgive me. If I have said anything that understates the truth and indicates my having a patience that allows me to settle for anything less than brotherhood, I beg God to forgive me…

I had not read King’s letter until last night.
But I’m glad that I did
And I encourage you to do the same.
Take the time to learn its history—
To understand from where the words came…
Then ask yourself if your cup of endurance is running over
And if it’s time to start pulling persons out of despair.

A Light In Darkness

“Charlie,” I said. “I need to ask you to forgive me. I can’t remember when you were born. Do you think you can forgive me?”

Charlie, of course, said yes. After all, he didn’t remember being born himself.

I, on the other hand, have had a hard time forgiving myself.

I remember when Jack and Henry were born. I have vivid memories of waiting in the waiting room for each of them to arrive. And I remember when Griffin and Amelia were born. I watched Griffin fly into the world and I held my sister’s leg as she delivered Amelia. But I have no recollection of Charlie’s birth...only his return to the hospital when he was just a few days old. He had a hole in his heart. I’ll never forget the worry in Daniel and Gretchen’s eyes or the heart drawings on the ER sheets or the relief in the room when the doctor said Charlie would be okay.

Puzzled by my lack of memory, I scrolled back through my phone’s calendar. My phone is only smart. It’s not a genius. Because I have no way to sync my phone calendar with my computer, I don’t use it for scheduling. In fact, I only refer to it to get an idea of what day dates fall on the calendar. So when I arrived at November 21, 2006, I was shocked to see three red numbers near the date. A red number means that an event took place that day. As soon as I clicked on the first red number, I knew...

I don’t remember Charlie’s birth because I was in shock from Kay’s, my mentor’s and friend’s, death.

On Tuesday, November 14th, I was standing outside Kay’s apartment watching the paramedics roll away her lifeless body. On Tuesday, November 21st, I was undoubtedly doing my best to celebrate the arrival of new life—a tiny baby boy whose body was full of possibility—yet I can’t remember it. I had helped make funeral plans, cleaned Kay’s townhouse, listened to grieving friends, and sung at Kay’s funeral in the week between Kay’s death and Charlie’s life. I had continued with my life and work, outwardly holding everything together. Yet inwardly I was beginning a downward spiral into a long period of darkness.

When I look at Charlie now—who is indisputably one of the cutest kids in the world—I see a life of light. I see how, in the middle of heartache and grief, a small seed of joy was planted in my soul and that it has blossomed into something amazingly beautiful in the five years that have followed. I am reminded that even in the darkest night, God is there, breathing new life and hope and possibility into this world and that sometimes it takes years to realize the full significance of a memory—or lack thereof—because sometimes it takes that long for our souls to mend.

“Dee,” I said. “I need to ask you to forgive me. I can’t remember when Charlie was born. Do you think you can forgive me for not remembering?”

“Yes, Dee, I can,” I said. “You were doing your best to survive after Kay died. And you made it. And I am proud of you. And you have five years of other memories with Charlie...and many, many more to come.”

He Wears His Heart On His Sleeve

One year for Christmas, I gave the boys my time. For one or two hours each month, I arranged to visit their house for the sole purpose of playing. I remember those times fondly and grieve the fact that I don’t get to play much now that I live in South Carolina. I got to play on Saturday night, though, and I had a blast...and I even got to go on an adventure with Henry and return victorious!

When it came time for supper, Jack and Henry decided they wanted pizza; Charlie decided on a Happy Meal. Henry thought he knew where Little Caesars was, so I challenged him to see if he could get me there. Getting into the car, I told Hen that he was going to have to give me directions at every turn. Shaking his hands as if warming up for a game, Hen said, “I’m so nervous!” But he told me every turn—describing in detail what we would see along the way—and I felt so very proud because I know my way through landmarks, too. I’m terrible with street names!

At one point, Henry was a little uncertain, but he didn’t lead me astray. Realizing that he had led me to the right road, he raised his hands in sheer joy and delight and triumphantly exclaimed, “Yes! I did it! I got us here on the first try!” He! Was! So! Excited!

That’s the thing with Hen. He wears his heart on his sleeve. When Hen is happy, his whole body is happy. When Hen is tired, his whole body shuts down. When Hen thinks something is funny, you will think it’s funny, too. When Hen laughs, you will join him because his laughter is contagious.

I laughed going through the drive-thru at McDonalds. I let Hen pay for his brother’s Happy Meal and he thought that simple action was the greatest thing. He giggled when the drive thru worker handed him his change. He said to me, “I’ve never done this before!” But he certainly did sound like a professional drive-thru visitor when he told the next worker that he did want a straw and then thanked her for her service.

By the end of our adventure together, Henry and I had garnered one happy meal, two large pizzas, two orders of crazy bread, and one box of Dunkin Donut holes. We had also had a very serious conversation about credit cards, interest payments, bank accounts, and debt, and Hen had indicated quite passionately that it was dumb to buy things if you didn’t have the cash to pay. Once again, I was proud :-).

I enjoyed my adventure with Henry, and I’m grateful for the one-on-one time I was able to spend with him. To see him smile, or to hear him laugh, or to feel him spontaneously squeeze my waste for a hug, or to have him crawl into my chair to snuggle, is worth every mile it takes to get there and fills me with that same feeling of triumph that he expressed when he realized he had successfully led the way to pizza that night.

Potty Talk And The Flying Boy

Six years ago this week, my sister, Dana, was very pregnant. In fact, she was so pregnant that she went into labor at the end of the week, on Friday the 13th.

After school ended that day—I was still teaching elementary music at the time—I drove to the hospital to wait. I waited through the afternoon and evening, greeting friends and family members who stopped by to visit, but I didn’t go back to see my sister until later that night.

Sometime after dark, when hospital traffic had lessened, my best friend, Angela, came to visit the family and me. Desiring some fresh air, I walked Angela to her car, and when I tried to return to the hospital through the door from which we came, I couldn’t! The doors had been locked.

I found an unlocked entrance in just enough time to make it to the waiting room, get a visitor’s pass, join my mom, and go back to see my sister moments before the doctor came to check her progress. My mom and I waited at the curtained delivery room entrance while the doctor examined Dana and determined that she was ready to start pushing. Fascinated by everything I was hearing, I didn’t budge, but my mom was so nervous about what she was hearing that she returned to the waiting room .

A few minutes later, my sister asked if I was still there. I said yes. She said you can come in. I went in. And that’s how I ended up glued to a hospital chair, watching in both horror and awe, as my nephew, Griffin, came flying into the world—literally. Once Griffin’s shoulder was freed, he flew out and the doctor had to catch him and I remember thinking, “Wow! He looked like a blue rag doll flying through the air!”

Six years later, Griffin is a highly intelligent, lego-loving kindergartener with an active imagination that does things like name the trees in his yard “The Far Tree of Knolls” and “The Near Tree of Knolls” and create his own company called Gromex.

Yet even highly intelligent young lads cannot resist potty talk and bathroom humor. Recently, at the Museum of Science and History in Jacksonville, FL, Griffin (and his sister Amelia) grinned from ear to ear and giggled uncontrollably as I read aloud the exhibit on flatulence.

Making fart noises and using potty talk is the source of much of Griffin’s humor, and while I know that I’m not supposed to laugh at it, I must admit that I sometimes do...especially when I receive a picture message from my sister with the caption, “Your daily dose of potty talk,” created by a sick almost six-year-old whom I adore and that I once watched fly into this world.

My Biggest Fan (written 1.5.12)

When women go into labor on TV, they have their babies rather quickly. This is precisely the reason that I thought my mom, dad, and I should shoot out of the bed in the wee hours of the morning on April 1, 2002, when my brother called to say that his wife was in labor. Little did I know that Gretchen’s labor would last many hours and that the wait for my first nephew would be so long. I remember watching Daniel and Gretchen go for walks to try to speed along the labor, and I remember the moment when Daniel came out of the delivery room with a triumphant look on his face and announced, “It’s a Boy! Jack A. Deaton.” He was so radiantly happy in that moment that tears filled my eyes.

Ever since he was born, Jack has been special to me. Just as I’ve done with each of my nephews and niece, I held Jack as a baby and prayed blessings upon his life. I prayed that God would allow him to grow into his fullness and that his life would be used to impact many people in a positive way. I prayed for health and happiness, courage and respect, safety and no bullying, knowledge and the freedom to pursue whatever career path he wants. I prayed that Jack would know that he was loved unconditionally and that God would help me do everything I could to be a steady, welcoming, and encouraging presence in his life. [I still pray these prayers today even though Jack’s feet are already larger than mine and holding him isn’t as much of an option anymore!]...

So when my best friend Angela offered to let me read (with my ears) her Harry Potter Collection, I finally decided to do it. I’d heard about the Harry Potter series for years, but I’d never read them. Yet Jack has read them—a couple of times—and he wanted to be Harry Potter for Halloween—and I wanted to be able to talk with him intelligently about the story line—and so I read them. And I’m so glad.

Jack and I have had many HP conversations over the past few months, and those conversations have led to talks about the creative process of writing, character development, imagination, good vs. evil, how stories move us, how stories move from page to screen, and much more...

During one of our literary discussions, Jack told me he was writing a chapter book based off of the Lego game Heroica. No big deal. All fourth grade boys use their time in the car to write chapter books, right? 

Evidently, Jack completed the book, typed it, selected the fonts for it, edited it, wrote a sleeve cover description for it, and published it, because when I opened my Christmas present this year, I found a book entitled, “Draida,” by Jack Deaton.

When I sat down at the kitchen table to read it, my niece, Amelia, was having a little snack, and asked if I’d read the story aloud. By the time I finished reading, all of new nephews had joined us and were thoroughly enjoying the story! It was well-written, interesting, and engaging—so much so that my nephew, Griffin, couldn’t believe that his role-model, Jack, had written it!

Before Jack left that day, I asked if he’d autograph my book. He did. He first signed his name—in cursive—then put the date—then I asked him to put, “To Dee.” So he did. And then, completely on his own, he put, “My biggest fan.”

Yep, Jack. You got it. Your Aunt Dee is your biggest fan. On the day you were born. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. Always...

Bedtime Manners (written 1.2.12)

One week ago tonight, I was at my grandmother’s house sleeping in “The World's Most Comfortable Bed.” Beside me on the floor lay my nephew, Griffin, and my niece, Amelia. As is always the case when on aunt duty, one ear slept while the other stayed awake, so as soon as Amelia stirred my entire body awoke to join my ear.

I watched as Amelia swiftly sat up, reached to the bottom of the bed, pulled up the blanket, and attempted to spread it over her. After trying for a minute, getting the blanket more and more twisted with each try, Amelia asked, “Could someone please help me with my blanket?”

Immediately, Aunt Dee sprang into action and spread the quilt evenly over Amelia’s little body. Shortly after settling back into my own covers, I heard two little squeaks of gas. Understanding that we all pass gas, I didn’t think anything of the two little bursts and simply turned to go to sleep.

But out of the mouth of a sleeping babe, I heard, “Excuse me” (emphasis on the “s”), then a sigh, then the sounds of steady little girl breathing. Content under her covers, gas expelled, my beautiful little Amelia, never fully awake, drifted back to dreamland…where her manners must be excellent if they are anything like they are in her sleep.