I will not apologize because:
-Because my baby- yes the padding foot steps of a 72 month old is a little louder than they used to be- is playing, singing, dancing. Practicing her tendus and haphazard cartwheels.
-Because my dogs bark at what they perceive to be a threat against their people. Me. Us. That big scary looking one, she is an absolute baby. An absolute baby that circled and brought to the knees a dangerous man that crept up on me and Meena’s little girl human. The little one, well we found her abandoned by a dumpster. She’s so excited to have a home, to have a dog friend and space to run in circles. She may never catch her tail but we’re going to give her the space and acoustic allotment to try.
-Because some times the stars align and the most magical throw backs stream out of Pandora begging me to shake my booty while doing the dishes. Ev is never one to sit out a dance party and the dogs quickly follow. It gets loud. The people in the apartment below cross my mind, I’m just as fast to shoo them away. These days, her childhood, they’re passing far too fast. I won’t be quiet for it.
-Because I love when my boyfriend dances. How he tries to hit all of the impossible high notes with Jill Scott. And because nothing makes us laugh quite as hard as his post-dinner serenades.
–Because I have lived in loud houses before. Loud with screams, pleas for mercy. That’s how I grew up. The quite one, who was often forced to scream back in a house of loud. The bad kind of loud. The kind of loud that warranted a noise complaint that never came.
-Because as an adult I lived in another loud house. One where I was the woman on the other side of a duplex wall desperately screaming for my neighbor to call the police for me. For someone to intervene. To help me when I felt the most helpless. No one called. Eventually I was loud enough to get my phone back to call 911 for myself. I know exactly how loud that I can be, I’m never trying to come near that decibel again.
-Because tonight I got to read the email that my beautiful boyfriend sent to the leasing office. Amidst the explanations and a timeline of the ‘loud music’ incident was this line, “….other than the occasional sleepover for our six year old”. Our six year old.
Excuse me while I bubble over with happiness. Happiness and disbelief that I’m in a place in this world with a partner who says OUR six year old. Our might not feel so resounding except that it’s the pronoun that defines our day to day life that has lingered in the air waiting to be claimed for a year.
For instance this day I called J in a tizzy at 3:10 to remind him to take Ev to gymnastics.
“Hello, ohhh yeah we’ve been here it started at 2:30”.
“God, you’re so good at life”. When I have completely forgotten, there he is holding all of the pieces together.
Yesterday he embodied OUR when he took Ev and her friend door to door peddling two dollar chocolate bars for her school fundraiser. They coined this genius sales pitch, “I’m selling chocolate, how much money do you got?” and “I’m selling chocolate, where’s your wallet”. 24 chocolate bars later I’ve got to say they’re a dynamic duo.
So thank you bitch ass down stairs neighbor lady you shined an amazing light into the fog of titles and accountability in my little family. It’s nice to bask in the glow. OUR happy, joyous, jump up and down, bumping soul jams at 4:00 in the afternoon, laughing fits before bedtime, loud life.
I won’t be apologizing for it.