Olivia, 7th of May

We are six weeks from celebrating Olivia's fourth rotation around the sun.

Though physically there have been minor (to no) variations in her development (i.e. she's still communicably nonverbal, she does not gesture, point, or sign beyond waving or clapping, she cannot stand, nor walk, she doesn't independently feed, she has sensory intolerances, etc), her personality has flourished.

It's somewhat a default to assume non-verbal children to be absent-minded or intellectually cloudy, but Einstein (in all his brilliance) said,

"..if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

In this update, I want to focus on what Olivia does.

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Olivia awakes like the little girl from the movie The Ring: curtains of hair enveloping her face.

"Good morning beautiful." I beam.

She's still somewhat disoriented, but she recognizes my voice and cocks her head back.

Aha! From squinted grey eyes she begins to realize that the day has begun.

"Bob." she mutters.

I've taken this to mean, "Good morning.”

"C'mon, you..."

I grab her nappies and wipes, and kneel down to our first diaper change of the day.

When she is clean, I steady my back, my knees, and hoist her seventy-pounds up to my hip.

She doesn't bear any of her own weight. She's a sack of potatoes, and trust.

When I've settled her, I pour some almond milk into a bottle and attempt to hand it to her.

She stares at me. Her eyes slide to the television warily, then back to mine.

"I'll put it on." I reassure her.

Nope, she shakes her head, and her eyes dart back to the TV, then to mine.

Ugh, fine.

I grab the remote, and load Netflix.

She still doesn't reach out for the bottle.

I scroll onto the last watched, "Cocomelon or Baby Bum?" I ask.

"Bob." she replies, and I guess.

She's very picky about what she will sit through.

Olivia waits for the actual show to start streaming before she reaches out, grabs the bottle from my hand, cocks her little ankle on her knee, and relaxes back.

I watch her from the kitchen as I make breakfast: my big/little girl and her morning routine.

Fast forward into the afternoon past a number of routines and obligations.

We are tired.

I contemplate my getting things done while she naps, but I know what she prefers.

She prefers me.

On the days that I can, I say..."Wanna go night-night with Mum?"

She stops what she's doing, tosses her toy, and her arms stiff into the air.

"Nigh naigh."

"Yeah..." I hold out teasingly, "Wanna take a nap? Go night-night with mum?"

She puts her arms out onto the floor, her fingers not fully extended, and crawls rapidly over to me. Sometimes too quickly, too clumsily. Once again, she lengthens her arms out to me, "Nai nit."

I hoist her, and as we walk to the master, she bounces on me giddily.

I grip at her firmly with each step.

"Yuh, yuh, ee, Bob, *giggle*..." she's conversing in her own language.

I unload her head onto the pillow, and she kicks...still excited.

"Okay." I try to settle her, "It's night-night."

I scooch in next to her, and she molds herself into me.

She presses in hard.

She seeks out exposed skin like a newborn.

Her eyelashes flutter, she opens her mouth for moist kisses, and in five minutes or so, she's heavy breathing onto my arm.

I struggle to freeze time.

I tell the nagging to-do list in my head that it can wait.

I try to fall asleep myself, but I usually can't.

I get caught up on the rhythmic rise and fall of her little chest, her thick eyelashes splayed across her cheeks, and the way her hair turns fiery auburn in the light streaming in from the blinds.

Evening rolls around, and she starts to hover more and more around the common area, and the front door. Occasionally she'll look up at me, from where ever she is, and say (what to me sounds like a question) "Dad?"

"He's at work."

We do this all day long, really...not just evenings.

She goes back to playing. I call it making a mess.

Minutes pass, "Dad?"

"Soon, baby. He'll be home soon."

And he is.

When Keith walks in through the door, we are all giddy to see him.

Me: My best friend is here, and an adult to talk to!

Olivia: Dad!

Bob: Santa!

It's a clamor of a wagging tail and a bouncing toddler.

He's always enthusiastic, too.

I'm not even exaggerating. On the drive home, this man musters up everything he has to greet his people.

"Monkey!" he exclaims.

He always gets to Olivia first.

I come next.

Bob, in the bronze, at third place.

There are so many shifts on any given day, and as much as I'd like consistency, we've seen very little of it...

But our relationship is consistent.

Our love for each doesn't fluctuate.

Olivia is wholly present from the moment she opens her eyes to the moment she closes them.

And she knows that we, her people, understand her.