I watched you carefully this afternoon, at the lake, while your brother threw a fit about his ill-fitting swimsuit. You were so content to walk the length of the short sandy ledge, back and forth, cautiously. When my busy eyes returned to you, I found you pouting, somehow affected by something I missed, ready to cry, but so willful not to. My eyes flinched and I bit my lip, but you stood there facing the sun and let your feelings rest with a deep sigh and a frown to the ground. Even when I was on alert, a bear-sized yellow lab lumbered up and grabbed the football you found, right out of your hands. The nerve! You YELLED at him, and pointed to “MUH BALL!” When the dog walked away, you looked at me so desperately. I had to do the impossible, and explain to you that it wasn’t really your ball after all.
But then, I was fortunate that you are nineteen months old, you let your feelings go again, as I pulled you into the cold lake and encouraged you to splash. You upshifted to rowdy, and the raucous splashing started, drenching my shirt and sunglasses and soul with chilly wet abandon.
The other day, you were in the lake right here with the two boys. You were frustrated that they kept swimming to and from the diving platform without you. So I watched you meditate through your approach, but always kept two hands behind you: sure enough, you walked all the way out to the platform, until your little button nose went under water, just before the metal ladder. When I scooped you up, I saw fearlessness in your chattering, toothy smile. You are so courageous and unfettered in the water. As I laughed and nuzzled my face into your neck, I felt pride mixed with fear: I can’t leave you for a moment near water. You have dived into our bathtub, climbed into the kitchen sink, taken off towards the waterfall at the creek, traipsed along the edge of every fountain, submerged your own head (while lying face-down!) in the bathtub and stood in the rain and in the shower: completely in love with the feel of water around you. I’m so thankful we don’t have a swimming pool, but really, it takes less than two inches of water.
While you were getting ready for bed tonight, I handed you your football so I could attend to Ford. While I brushed and cleaned and put on pajamas, you threw the ball high into the air over your head, over and over again. It would disappear and you’d laugh like a robust Vince Vaughan, and it would fall five feet in front or behind you. Then you threw it up a foot or two in the air, and you caught it! And you caught it again. You did this like you’ve been doing it for months. Have you? When I applauded, your joy noticed the audience, and you joined me in clapping, laughing even louder. And afterwards, you picked the football back up and threw it high again, catching it on the return.
For every day that I’ve forgotten to read to you, or let your wet diaper pickle your bottom, I’ve been rewarded with these little hints of determination. It’s proof that there’s a lot of nature to match nurture. It’s amazing what you have managed to teach yourself while I’ve been preoccupied, and I’m happy so say that , at the very least, I haven’t been too preoccupied to notice.
love, ma
