OH Dylan, MY Dylan
He walked around the kitchen wearing nothing but a diaper, which struck me as odd because he had to be nearly seven or eight years old. Way too big to not have been potty-trained. His mouth and cheeks were still dirty from the chocolate candy-bar he recently enjoyed. The cloths scattered around him would suggest that he recently enjoyed his treat. A straightforward argument made evident by the chocolate stains visible on the red-striped shirt balled-up by his feet. He walks in a circle and seems to be fixated on something in his hands. His erratic movements made it impossible to catch even the slightest glimpse at this mystery item. Stephen, my older brother, approached the boy with a sippy-cup halting his motions. I took advantage of this moment to further identify the entrancing object. It was a long piece of string.
Stephen held the sippy-cup to the boys line-of-sight and lightly waved it as if to catch the attention of a pet. "Dylan," he said in a peeling tone. It jumped me, but not Dylan. He was unaffected by his the directed callings. He stares at the freshly poured drink with great wonder. "Chocolate milk," Stephen continues as he gestures the drink towards Dylan. His gesture carries on with no response. It is my first time meeting Dylan and his family, but my older Brother has been staying here for quite some time. He has told me how great they have been to him and that he respects them. In our family, to gain full respect can be a cause for a communal celebration.
"I'll get it," Carrie orders as she enters the kitchen. She makes a brief stop to hug me before taking the sippy-cup from my Brothers hand and giving it to Dylan. "Now, what do you say?" she asks Dylan with a giant grin.
Dylan begins to sway side-to-side slowly to the rhythm of a song that we cannot hear, his eyes shift off into the distance beyond the kitchen. Title his head back slightly, he puckers his lips and
quickens the rhythm of his sway. Left then right, left then right, Dylan shifts his eyes to meet the stare of every adult in the room before looking back towards his adoring Mother. She nods her head lovingly as if telling him its okay to speak, and he is safe. The message seems to have been received and successfully communicated. The swaying motions come to a stop; I am thoroughly captivated and drawn in at the moment.
He did not shy away to continue his time alone, as I found out later in the years that he would much instead preferred solitude. Instead of a warm embrace, Dylan stood very close to Carrie, nearly nose-to-nose, and hummed as he ran his fingers through her hair. She speaks to him playfully "Oh yea" she giggles and continues "you're not going to hug your Mother, but you'll jack her hair up" we lightly chuckle as they continue.
The corner of her child's lips curls ever-so-slightly as he finally publishes the first smirk I have witnessed since my arrival. They continue to maintain their eye-contact. Dylan's smile fades as he strokes along the sides of Carrie's head as if he is comforting her. He studies the sensation the hair gives to his palms; pure discovery. His humming transforms into, what sounds like, a higher pitched attempt at pronouncing "Mom" or even "Ma" would have drawn tears from all in attendance. Was I witnessing an almost palpable and perfect example of Mothers Love?
Finally, Dylan's hands trace the curvature of Carrie's ears and to her cheeks. He lightly squeezes her cheeks together and begins to hum once more, this time the tone is more of a positive upbeat. The failed attempts to enunciate, even the simplest of, words broadcast clear signals of frustration embedded in Dylan's facial expression. He handled it differently than other children his age, instead of getting upset and having a tantrum either physically or verbally, he stuck his tongue all the way out of his mouth and cracked into a half chuckle.
They seemed frozen in time, captured in a moment that genuinely provides evidence to even the most influential disbeliever, that love is real.
Carrie smiles at her fantastic son "you're in a loving mood, Bug" she states.
Dylan continued to gently stroke his Mothers cheeks, humming softly. It seemed to last forever. I have never seen a love like this from a child; it was almost as if he was more genuine maybe even just a little more. After only a few more moment his hands stopped caressing her cheeks, and the therapeutic melodic hum faded out. They sat in silence for a brief moment before Dylan broke out into a burst of laughter. His sudden eruption startled the room, which only seemed to fuel his hilarity. Seeing Dylan so happy was instantly contagious as we all began to laugh.
As the laughter began to trail-away into a light chuckle, Dylan looked back at Carrie with bright eyes. He squeezed her cheeks firmly, instantly catching her full attention. Dylan pushed both cheeks in as far as they would allow and let out a playful clang "Mamamamamamaaaaaaa" Dylan retrieves the string that was left abandoned on the floor next to his, now wrinkled, clothing. He hopped around the kitchen, almost as if he if was performing some modern rendition of a joy-filled Tribal Dance Ritual. Let out shouts of jargon, exclaiming something; but in a language, only Dylan, himself could understand. Spinning his string as fast as his little arms would allow, I watched, feeling enraptured by this child.
Carrie stood back to her feet with a massive smile on her face as she looked towards me. "That's Dill-Bug" she notifies me "he loves string" stating the obvious.
"Why string?" I asked.
"I don't know, that's his thing" she answers jokingly.
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