Parenthood is a hard gig. Nothing speaks louder than experience, and I’ve been there.
Consider a child who wants to explore — who questions current reality not to debate, but to understand. Yet we have a pressing time constraint, one the child never agreed to. Rush.
Consider a child who feels “off” but cannot explain why in the moment. We’re left wondering why she insists on changing seats at the restaurant several times. Next to me. Across from me. None of the rearranged seating meeting her need. What gives?
And with this very small, yet whole person, I chose not to order a margarita to dull my edges. I’m left raw, forced to examine my reactions to all her life’s adventures.
Even now, thinking of it, my eyes fill with tears. Perhaps from embarrassment over the way children are pushed out of their own rhythms and into adult agendas. Or perhaps because I’m touched by this little person’s innate blossoming.
As we all were, she was born to create — to sing, dance, and don her own notion of fashion regardless of the itinerary. Her innocence allows her to consider no opinion but her own. That is so damn refreshing I can’t even—
She was born onto this beautiful canvas of a life and instinctively knows she may place herself wherever she likes.
I suppose Shakespeare was right about the “all the world’s a stage” business.
I announced the evening itinerary:
“Let’s go thrifting, then maybe Rosa’s for sweet corn tamales.”
Heading to her dresser, she declared:
“I’ll need a tutu… and some lipdik.”
I understood and obliged.
A tutu is for when you want to look and feel your best.
And the lipdik? At three years old, that girl knows how to present.
One corner of the thrift store held row after row of children’s toys — well used, yet still maintaining a smidgen of life. We wandered the aisles examining toddler baseball shirts, a plastic rotary phone, gold vinyl boots, a cheesy one-dollar purse — all at her behest.
Then, as if a beam of light had strobed onto the shelves, there they were.
“Hey Annie… how about these?”
Ballerina flats.
Three sizes too big, but with a future.
I cannot fully convey the joy on her face at that incredible find. To understand it, you would have to know how we dance in the living room every week to YouTube ballet recitals, clips from The Nutcracker, and whatever else we can find.
But first, she always reaches for a tutu.
She wore the ballerina flats out of the store, scuffing forward with curled toes so she wouldn’t walk right out of them.
The restaurant was a bust. We packed our dinners and headed home. In hindsight, I think there can only be one true “high” in a day, and she had several already that day. The flats were the culmination.
Dinner was simply too much for a small nervous system already flooded with adrenaline and joy.
Once home, she asked for music. We negotiated several YouTube ballerina videos. In her tutu and oversized ballet flats, she spun around the room, arranging her feet into various poses, gesturing delicately with her hands and fingers.
I had to turn away while my tears openly flowed.
When emotion rises from some deep, untapped well, tears cannot simply be stopped.
My mind became a jumble of unrestrained feeling. Being in her energy — her joy and innocence spilling into the room — was more than I could bear. Yet somehow, it also surfaced something in me that needed healing.
Children whose lives were truncated. Stopped short. Never allowed to blossom. Literally nipped in the bud.
There are so many of us.
And somewhere deep within myself, I knew this grandchild would become a force — a gateway to healing.
And to do so, her only task is simply to be herself.
