Last night, at a babysitter’s house, London opened the fridge and picked out what she’d like for dinner. When it came time to put her to bed, she insisted that the pants at the end of the bed be removed. She also insisted that the bathroom light be left on, not the light on the bedside table.
London’s tastes are very particular. She knows exactly what she likes. And what she doesn’t like. Fortunately, her language skills have blossomed recently, allowing her to fully communicate the complexity of her wishes:
Playdough, yes, but I want blue, not yellow.
Take a nap but not in the bed, in the car.
Not that for dinner; I’d like this.
Many horses in the bed to sleep (in response to my only providing one).
I’ve wondered lately if London’s only now developing these preferences or if she’s always had them but been unable to communicate them.
I know Eve has preferences, but for the life of me I can’t figure them out. Occasionally I stumble on a snack or a book or a song that makes her crazy-happy. Too happy, really, for the circumstance. I guess she’s just excited that I figured her out, that I understood the pointing and hand signals and grunts.
I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be to be doing everything in your power to communicate a need or a desire, knowing that your chances of having it met are about 50 percent.
I would be crying a lot.
Anyway, I was thinking just now about how glad I am that God hears me and gets me. I like that passage where the Holy Spirit is interpreting my prayers, turning them into God-groans beyond words. I like that I can talk to my Father with full assurance that He’s hearing exactly what I’m saying, nothing lost in translation.