My Baby's Pink Chumblum

Baby girl arches a drowsy head from
mommy’s shoulder; pulling open
eyes, she points to a pink balloon and
chimes, “chumblum.” I’d been stupid to
the chaos of birthdays, the
cacophony which explodes from
hearts and lungs
of two year
old boys, until two hours prior, when I
carried her curled to my
hip, approaching Tate’s big
bash. My daughter, fourteen months, reserved, shot
mini brown
irises
into mine. Baby girls emote with
their eyes—hers
screamed, “Daddy! What’re you doing to me?!”
Witnessing the youngest partier (only girl) hesitate
towards Bob the Builder tool
benches and
surreal plastic three
woods, while stormy
tykes thrashed in
circles gripping doom and red
colored
wiffel bats, compassion forced me
back to my own history. Early childhood was
lost in the
Amazon; jungle tree trunks, one after
another, loomed
mutely as I scratched and
clawed and
tore my way through
wilderness. If I saw
something
familiar, I clung to
it and hung on as
long as I could. In first grade, my folks transported
me to Georgia from Kansas, via station-wagon, and
abandoned me at S.L Mason where
kids were cruel and
crazy and cackled
like foreign
savages--eighth grade before I isolated
the truth that I was a
fish outta water from the notion that I may
well be a social
idiot. I scooped
her up and tore off mumbling, “happy birthday” to slobbery
hysterical Tate, fisting cheap ribbon leading
up to
a pink spherical
breath of air—a balloon!
Oh familiar! primal! Oh thank you sweet
Jesus! Koala bear fastened to my
ribs, I raced towards the Impreza; following
us like a zealous puppy in the breeze, my baby’s
pink chumblum.