A Portrait of the Writer's Offspring at Rest
There is something I can get into about that toddler energy: the mischief, the curiosity, the constant science experiment of pouring liquid from one vessel to another, the repetition, well, ok, maybe not the repetition. But the giggles, the hoots, the miracle of words, even the little tempests in the teapots that march around the house flailing themselves to the floor when you choose the wrong book (that was yesterday their favorite) for bedtime. I dunno. I feel like I get it. The frustration of the small body with large needs and little motor skills and immediate desires. I'd be throwing myself on the ground, too, if I couldn't figure out why the giant rocking horse could not be simply dragged up the stairs, through two doorways and over the living room rug that catches even as giant humans traipse over it.My daughter has also discovered fear. Something that is my gentle introduction to the fact that I will not always be able to protect her. It is a hard thing for a parent to wrap their head around, especially when one has so all-encompassingly paid attention to every single moment of their waking life. Ok, not really. But beginning from those bouncy, baby years, as a parent, you are, like, on total suicide watch with the little tigers. One begins to feel sure by this point that you can pretty much protect them from anything. Because so far you have. You just, you know, have to never leave their side. But that leaving? It starts happening the moment they roll over and begin inching their way to the deliriously compelling and confounding world that is just beyond your embrace.
But the best? The best thing is staring into her face and her peering back with a huge toothy grin. No matter that she still has the irritating tendency to get over excited in moments like these and swat me in the face. Or wait, no, the best thing is when she makes her pretend frightened face and holds it til she gets the right reaction. Or how obsessed she is with that one illustration of an incidental horse on page 5 of Madeline. Or how she will stop everything the minute she hears a truck and run to the door. Or when she simply growls like a tiger. One cannot live with a toddler and not begin to learn a thing or two about pure, unadulterated joy. We take notes as parents from our children. And we learn how to relive our own lives as they do. These precious months–before insecurity, homework, peer pressure, and our own parental baggage take firm hold in their maturing bodies–teach us how to live in the ecstasy of the moment. The potential. The danger. The risk. And the reward.
