Yesterday, our place was full of happy chaos! Mostly happy, anyway.
A puppy pounced on a squeaky toy pulled by
three laughing, calling kids. Spilled milk from a toddler’s cup puddled on the counter
then followed the slight incline of old farmhouse from counter top to floor as Papaw
ran for a towel. Nana followed giggly voices attached to skittering feet,
closely observing the erratic race through the house. She watched for signs of puppy bites to
little ankles or children jostling too much.
In the midst of all the happy cavorting of said children and
puppy, suddenly, one grandchild, a girl with sunshine for hair stopped running,
fell to her knees beside one fire engine riding toy, and peered under the seat.
Gleefully, she began scooping up handfuls of brilliantly colored, white-numbered
dice and plunked them into a nearby red bucket. All action halted instantly at the sound of
dice hitting tin.
Puppy was curious, the small boy horrified. His trunk was being looted right before his
eyes, and his hidden treasures pirated.
Loud, mournful wails replaced the tinkling-on- tin as his small arm
heaved backward readying for delivery of a sound thrashing to the golden head
in front of him.
Nana intervened, swooping the indignant one up in her arms.
Tears gushed down small cheeks as stammered words proclaimed ownership of all
colored dice. The golden girl stood, then, offering her own condolences. Nana, looked into the eyes of her youngest
grandchild.
“I understand how hard this is for you,” she said. “You may say you don’t like this.” (Nana loves
how the small boy’s mommy tells him this when he is asked to do something he
won’t appreciate, so she copies her style style.)
“I don’t yike this!” Boy quickly exclaims. Nana gently continues.
“These toys are not really yours; they belong to Nana and
Papaw. They seem like yours because you play with them more than your cousins do.
Since you weren’t playing with the dice at the moment, it’s okay for her to
play with them. Sometimes, it’s best to
share and other times it’s best to put our favorite toys away and not share.
Tonight is the night for sharing though. Okay?”
He meant to say, okay, but the o got stuck in his in his mouth
as a fresh round of sorrow overtook him: Oooooooooooooo. And then, he quieted, and spoke clearly.
“I need a pophickle.” The popsicle thought reminded his
heart of the hurt so the wailing began again.
Since the conversation seemed more interesting than dice, the golden
girl remained by our side.
And this is where "I" -Nana - have this moment of the day in a freeze frame. You know how clarity hits you smack in the heart sometimes? Time seems to stand still? It happened to me, right here in this moment.
“Why do you need a popsicle, dear?” I ask.
“Becuz, I’m sad.” He draws
out the word sad, drops his head and his eyes, tears hesitating on his lashes. When
I’m silent, he looks up at me, his mouth crumbled, cheeks wet, brown eyes round
and wide.
Oh, he is good, this darling child who has observed human behavior
for three long years. He is completely genuine too. There is absolutely no guile, no conniving
in this child. His emotion is pure, raw, and yet, studied. Everything he’s learned
up to this very moment is coming into play. Everything, we adults have taught
him, by our actions, the TV shows we set before him, the subtle and obvious ways
we tease, coerce or gently manipulate others. He is simply mirroring it all back to us, with
perfection. Why should he not be rewarded?
The combination of angst, imitating, and 3 year old logic is deadly
effective. Many a weary adult has succumbed,
myself included. I confess my mind would
love to stop it all here and be able to analyze into a sort of play by play. I
wish I had years of study in psychology and human behavior to eloquently express
all that I know and feel about this simple moment.
Will I give him a popsicle? Will I allow food - sugar and fat - to
comfort him in his hour of need? Will I
choose food over honest human connection? Will I slap a treat in his hands instead of walking
deeper into this moment of discomfort with him?
Frankly, I am tired. It’s been a long day of sopping wet
snow suits, muddy boots, of lifting heavy snow balls to build a snowperson, of
getting out snack after snack and cleaning up spills, of scolding the girls for
getting homemade Gunk on their good shirts, of separating puppy teeth from pink
mittens, of stopping the boy from jumping on girls and knocking their heads
into giant sized goose eggs.
My lesser self want to give the
popsicle. After all, from his crawling about until now, every scrape he’s had involving the mouth or head involved something
cold and icy to stop swelling and comfort the bruise. Why not continue the trend? It’s quite
logical on his part to receive a popsicle also for his bruised heart. It would instantly
turn tears to smiles, and buy me some time while I manage the puppy and the
other two kids. Besides, comfort food is
what our whole culture pushes, right? It’s
what I grew up on. Food = love and love
= food. Doesn't more connection happen
around a table or a fire pit, then from silently sharing some space or from talking
heart to heart?
I decide I’m wearier of my own food obsessions and
conditionings, so I kiss his wet cheeks, hug
him tight and set the timer. His little
face shows intrigue.
“When this timer goes off, we’ll decide if we are hungry.
Until then, let’s read a book and snuggle on the sofa!”
Time moved on then, the moment passed. Nana read the picture book, “The Crown on Your Head”
to the brown eyed boy and blonde headed girl, while the puppy chewed contentedly on a cow hoof she purposely dropped on the way to the book shelf, and the older child contented herself with a book of her own choosing.
After the book, the children felt and looked for their crowns. Nana told them how sparkly and special were their crowns.
And later, when they
decided they were hungry, Nana and Papaw pulled out a box of tiny cones and filled
them with vanilla and chocolate ice cream!
