Thursday, April 3, 2014
The other day I took Edie to Trader Joe's for our weekly stock up. She had sat more or less patiently in the seat of the cart the whole trip, aided somewhat by a chocolate chip scone sample. I had finished up and unloaded her by the giant chalkboard before checking out.
She was standing there, drawing what she said were whales and laughing at her own jokes (apple didn't fall too far from that tree, did it James?), when she pointed to some words some other child had earlier chalked. She pointed to them as though she was reading them and said, "Mom and Dad."
She looked at me and I nodded, and told her that was exactly what it said.
Sometimes all I can feel is the smallness of my world. I know it's only for a short while, and that I certainly will miss it, and I remember this and try my hardest to be present in every moment. But, on long afternoons, when the winter feels like it will never end, it gets a little hard to breathe. It's not Sylvia Plath territory or anything; these are just natural consequences of the path I've chosen in this chapter of my life.
But, then, there are moments, like flying on a rainy day and making it above the cloud cover and realizing that the sun's been shining the whole time; moments that I'm suddenly, unexpectedly, unreasonably glad Edie's world is so small. That "mom and dad" are the only things she can imagine being written on that chalkboard. Moments that I stop looking forward to the freedom that later years will bring and wonder how long I can keep our world so tiny.