All four bathrooms are fully equipped with vampire burgundy hot tubs that fit four, and separate showers with dual separate showerheads. The beautiful stained glass cathedral windows and black marble floors give a Gothic feel, while the contrasting faux white tiger lily arrangements prevent the room from drowning in the gloom. At present, I’ve gone beyond merely visual pleasure and into the realms of scent, sound, and overall vibe. No room lacks oil diffusers, incense, candles, and some form of sound system; and all rooms are plenty spacious.
I gave Cheyanne the ability to be innovative by allowing her to individualize her surroundings—within reason. It is amazing to be in her little world when I spend time in her room. Cheyanne chose all the colors, and I allowed her to pick her furniture with a sensible parent-approved budget. Her bedroom is ice age blue, with purple crown molding outlining a cobalt-blue ceiling full of glow-in-the-dark stars. Her main source of light is crystal solar system chandelier that dangles above her cherrywood queen-size bed equipped with stuffed anime characters and a deep-green bedspread with a picture of a dancing golden dragon. Though the hallways of her wing are a bland eggshell white, they are outfitted with large black frames displaying her best pieces of colorful art. Her bathroom always smells of cinnamon and baby powder, though she prefers only her guests to use it.
I have been accused of allowing her too much expressive freedom, but to me, it is a gift I have given her—one that has nurtured the type of growth you do not typically see in children her age.
Home at last. It is always such a pleasure to be here in my beautiful home with my small, tight-knit family. My home is my palace—my reward for surviving my past, with such a willful effort to attain it.
Dinner is family time, an opportunity to examine each other’s thoughts and measure growth. I find that routines such as these are usually only boring with boring families. This is not the case with us because we are a trio with a diverse range of hobbies and talents. Our time at the dinner table often extends well into the evening while we converse about a wide range of topics. One example of a topic is to view this world without prejudice and to honor the knowledge that comes from ancient intuition, or subconscious. I also encourage Cheyanne to be open and honest about her thoughts and feeling, so long as there are no hidden intentions backed by primitive thinking such as subjective ignorance endorsed with ego. We lead by example and are diplomatic regarding disagreements while appreciating the knowledge that comes from one another’s perspective. At this very dinner table, we instilled in Cheyanne the understanding that “why” is often more important compared to the ploy that sometimes comes in the form of “what.” We have fed her hungry curiosity with incentives that lead to the true potential of cause and effect. In this way, Cheyanne is less susceptible to becoming compromised by the conundrum of distracting decoys that society often introduces. It is wonderful listening to Cheyanne speak with excitement about her day, especially when it pertains to her experience working on her academic endeavors. She is an incredible student, much to my relief and sanctity. She has many of my gifts and curses including my rebellious overtones. Though I count my blessings, that she’s only a small percentage as defiant as I was, and mainly because I’ve given her fewer reasons to be.
Cheyanne inherited her sensitivity and benevolence from me. As a result, she will overthink and overfeel virtually everything, and I offer her an ear and sympathy because I can honestly relate. I am not strict about a lot of things, but I am extremely strict about a few things. This allows her to vent to me, so long as she respects my rules. My rules are quite simple—tell the truth, be humble, behave kindly, and remain accountable at all times. I forgive her when she makes mistakes, and I’m proud of her as long as she makes an honest effort and doesn’t lose her truth in the process. I don’t allow her to bullshit herself or me, but I’m respectfully compassionate about the truth, especially when the truth is painful. My strategy seems to work because I don’t sense that she is the slightest bit guarded around Bruce or me. He and I, like now, sit at the table with an empty plate, while hers is perfectly full, save for a few pieces of carrots she managed to swallow quickly because she’s so excited about expressing her daily adventures. Once past her history project, and a screenshot of her art projects, some of which are far beyond my shading capabilities, she begins speaking about her favorite teacher.
“Mrs. Whelan is having us work on a poetry project. It’s due Friday, but I was so excited for her to read it, that I submitted mine early.” “That’s great, sweetie. Poetry shouldn’t take long because when it comes from the heart, it just seems to flow like a river of emotion into a deep, sometimes arbitrary, ocean of words.” My voice is encouraging, but I’m granted a fake smile, so I know something’s wrong. “What is it, did the teacher give you a bad grade on your poem?” Her lip begins to quiver as if she’s holding back tears, but I realize she’s trying to stay strong, so I refrain from wrapping my arms around her and allow her to speak assertively. “It’s not that at all, the teacher loved my poem. That’s the problem. She liked it so much she read it to the rest of the class. It was the class that seemed to think it was weird. Some of them even laughed at me. I feel so embarrassed and hurt because I thought it was good.” I reply with an encouraging voice, backed by the truth this open opportunity offers me to convey. “My darling, nothing extremely amazing has ever come out of any human being who let conventional thinking or the opinions of others hold them back. Only the opinion of someone who understands rich and compelling narratives, and understands literature, has an opinion worth honoring in regards to your writing. And that person, my dear, is your amazing teacher. I’ve met her, and she is truly a unique and wonderful human being that knows literature extremely well. I would believe her, and not let the opinions of those with very little experience get to you.” For the first time tonight, she starts filling her face with food, and the table is silent, except for her chewing while she contemplates my words with an inquisitive look on her face. Finally, her plate is empty, and she responds, “Right, Mommy, some of my favorite artists, scientists, and historians would exist, but I bet most of their work wouldn’t if they let people’s opinions get in their way.” I award her with a genuine smile. “You are more evolved than most children. Some people take too long to figure that out. I’m so proud of you!” Cheyanne wraps both arms around each of our necks, pulling our family trio into a group hug. “Love you, guys, but it’s my bedtime, and I’m very tired. Goodnight, Mom and Dad.” More confidently she skippers off to her room and disappears for the night. For a little while, Bruce and I sit in silent contemplation as I enjoy a store-purchased lemon cake that melts into my hot cinnamon tea. I’m a relatively young mother, and it doesn’t seem too long ago that I was dealing with my own school issues, and so I empathize with Cheyanne’s feelings much of the time. I’m certain there will be occasions where she will instinctively seek refuge from the excruciating pain and wonderful blessings of being empathic, creative, and intelligent. I know it’s hard for her to sit through school without her leg shaking under the desk, her mind bursting with more curiosity than a teacher who babysits thirty students could ever satisfy. Her extreme senses make it hard for her to concentrate because anything distracts. Yet, she does amazingly well in school. It took a certain level of maturity, which came very late in life, for me to appreciate the fact it is better to have a formal education and not need it than to need it and not have it. I help her with her homework, even though I was too rebellious to do it myself at her age. I occasionally insert condescending political remarks into her writing assignments, that several of her amazingly brilliant underpaid teachers sometimes enjoy. They are far more accepting than the teachers I patronized when as a youngster. Maybye because they are sick of the fucked-up system that doesn’t pay them nearly enough to deal with some of the emotionally