Spunk and sass. Made-up sign language and in-jokes. How has this happened in so few days?
We went to the eye doctor today, and as we waited for our eyes to dilate, we talked with one of the ladies there. We were discussing fashion and food, and comparing life in her home country to life here. She spoke quite eloquently about why she thinks America has a problem with obesity—she pointed out portion size, the ease of fast food, and the processing of many of the things we eat. But she also praised the access to fresh vegetables and wondered why we don’t take advantage of it more.
Nodding along and interacting, I looked over at the technician. “You understand everything she just said?” she questioned, confused.
I realized that half of our conversation had been in shorthand only we understood.
But isn’t that the way that most people find each other? They come together and find a rhythm that works for them and settle into that cozy space and live life. It’s not really about a language barrier. It’s not even about the speed of the connection. It’s about the comfort we have found together.
Today was a day of sweet companionship.
We made a Wal-Mart run, buying that ever-important sponge. I have a picture, but it was only allowed reluctantly if I didn’t post it anywhere in the internet.
Making our plans for the day, she suggested the same meal I was thinking of using leftover chicken. I asked if she was going to make it. She shrugged her okay assent.
We spent the evening baking, crafting, and simply spending time together. She was in control of the oven, and watched as Little Man and I worked together on a project. When she decided it was time, she got out the ingredients and cooked our dinner.
We watched a show Little Man and I like, and she declared it “stupid.” She also made fun of me for my audible reactions to the show, mocking my facial expressions and whispers of distress.
I gave her an apron as an early birthday present. She fell asleep on the couch with it still on. When I took her picture, she opened her eyes and told me I was her personal paparazzi. She couldn’t do anything without me taking pictures. “I sleep, click-click-click. I walk, click-click-click. I cook, click-click-click. I toilet, click-click-click.”
Her sarcasm only makes me love her more.
And I tell her. Over and over.
And I will keep hugging and keep listening and keep building. I will sway with the beautiful rhythms of this girl and what she has brought to this home.
And I will “oy paparazzi” it all because I don’t want to forget a second. Click-click-click.