Religion, age, gender, attire, color… none of it mattered.
Tanner was friends with everyone. He didn’t care who you were or what you looked like or what anyone else thought of you — if you were within high-fiving distance, your hand was getting a high-to-the-five.
So it was no surprise one day when we were at Target and he spotted a woman in a full Islamic Burqa. Except for the small sliver of cloth missing for her to see though, she was robed head to toe.
She caught Tanner’s eye instantly and I saw him see her. His body language quickly shifted toward her and I knew he was going to approach her.
Tanner gets away with anything and I’ve learned not to stop him or worry about social norms because he’s able to bridge a divide with so many different types of people — many who often are overlooked or ignored.
Plus, his curiosity is so innocent.
He began to approach her very confidently. I stood a ways back to give him his space and let him work his charming magic. I had no idea if he’d just walk up and want a high five, a handshake, or simply to look at her attire.
He came within a few steps of her and stopped.
I watched with the normal motherly way I often would, smiling, knowing his heart of gold would be shining through any moment.
When all of a sudden, he lept into the air, came down in a low squatting position three feet in front of her, his arms in full ninja karate-chopping posture and yelling:
NIIIIIIIINNNNJAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!
He thought she was a ninja. And he was doing the greeting of their people.
I might have peed myself laughing as hard as I did. I don’t really remember. I looked hard into the slit of her Burqa trying to determine if the squint of her eyes was from smile or disdain — I’ll never know. After a moment of watching Tanner hold his ninja stance, she silently walked off.
It’s still one of my very favorite memories.
I had my first therapy appointment last week.
Maybe my last, I don’t know.
I’ve been an utter wreck since.
After talking about him for nearly two hours with the therapist it hit me hard how little we actually talk about him. It occurred to me that while he is mentioned from time to time, no one just offers up stories or shares a favorite memory.
As I struggled into the late hours of the night that night, sharing my heart and hurt with a few friends, they all said the same thing: they were always hesitant about bringing him up and upsetting me.
To anyone that ever wonders: it’s far more upsetting to feel like he’s being forgotten (even if that’s never going to happen) than to deal with the sadness that comes in retelling a story or hearing one of yours.
Please don’t stop talking about my baby.
Please don’t stop telling his stories.
Please don’t be afraid to ask me about him or to bring him up.
He is my baby, my heart, my angel and still one of my most favorite subjects in the whole wide wonderful world. 
