My finger tips are sensitive, more sensitive than my mouth with hundreds of taste buds and a squishy tongue that is easily burned. My finger tips have layers of skin in squiggly patterns. They look like teeny knit potholders, so why are they so sensitive? I can hold a sip of soup within my lips but the bowl cannot sit in my hands. The touch ignites me, makes me howl and my mind go blank. The human body is so mysterious, curious. I could wonder about it forever.
***
The girls I babysit are inherently passionate, so tiny are they that emotion fills their little bodies and consumes them. If they are angry, they will yell. If they are sad, they will wail and produce saline tears that don't roll, but rain down their faces. If they are happy, they will show off their smiles which go out wide and not up tall, and reveal bones just millimeters long that they struggle to avoid brushing at night.
While these qualities can be exhausting at times to them, myself, and their parents, I am quite envious of their ability to express emotion. I want to throw fits when I am angry, knock books off of coffee tables. To burst into tears whenever I feel like it, I want to be able to sing when I am happy no matter where I am. I want to scream if a room is too quite. I have much to learn from children, and this is one of these things. I envy their unconscious inhibition. It makes them important. I am not important. I am complacent, and coasting.
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