Tenacious Tiger #1

The Drips

To my grandfather, I was the "giggler." To my parents, I was the "belly laugher." And to my sister, I was just an opportunity for her to play with a doll that actually pooped its pants.

I've always thought it would be fun if toddlers could write down what is going through their minds at a given moment. I'm sure there's a boat-ton of insight about the world hiding in their fuzzy little domes. But then again, maybe it is just "goo, goo, goo" that they're thinking.

And no doubt if I could still remember those first few years of my life and could actually put them into words, I would have been asking myself "why does Grandpa keep poking that tickly part of my foot?" And "why does my mom make that *wheet wheeeeet* sound when I pull on her nose?" And "why on God's Green Earth does my sister keep yelling *poop, poop, poop* at me?" I still don't understand my sister's fascination with the fecal arts.

But I lived for those whimsical sounds of my mother. We always played this game where I would sit on her lap, but only facing her. Each part of her face made a different noise. A quick tug on her hair was the sound of a tugboat. *Laugh, Laugh, Laugh* A poke in the cheek made a brassy wonking sound. *Laugh, Laugh, Laugh* And for a three-year old, man did I love it. And these were no simple chuckles of mine. To hear my mother describe it, it was the most admired laugh of any child in my hometown, something that could even salvage an evening of arguing between my parents. But then again, admiring her child is her job. I'd be insulted if she told me Brian Studnicki had a better laugh than I did. Hmph, hmph, hmph.

The earliest memory of my childhood, though, centers around a single book. I still have the exact copy, which has survived more than twenty years of moving, divorcing, passing away, re-marrying, more divorcing, and more moving. Johnny Lion's Rubber Boots. After a few dozen months of honing my cunning giggle, it truly blossomed under the direction of Johnny Lion's Rubber Boots, usually when my mother was reading it. It centered around a little lion--his name was Johnny in case you couldn't deduce--that was growing tired of playing inside. He so badly wanted to play outside, but it was raining; raining like cats and dogs, naturally. But I need not tell you any more, the content is not what's important. What was always important was my mom.

Every few pages there was a fun description of the rain:

"Drip, Drip, Drip."

*Laugh, Laugh, Laugh*

...

"Drip, Drip, Drip."

*Giggle, Giggle, Giggle*

...

"Drip, Drip, Drip."

*Laugh, Laugh, Laugh*

...

I was too enthralled with the sounds back then to fully appreciate how lucky I was to be sitting there, with my mom, laughing. You never miss those moments--or rather, the re-telling of those moments--until they're stolen from you in an instant, an instant you wish was some horrible nightmare that you'd wake up from.

I miss you, Mom. Drip, drip, drip.