The Kind Touch of a Stranger

Dropped ten-year-old off at football practice and headed to run a few errands last night. Eight-year-old upon realizing that we weren't going straight home, burst into tears. Now, I know my little man enough to say that yes, he does indeed sometimes cry over nothing, and can be quite sensitive and pouty--but this cry was one of those "different" crys--it said, "I'm feeling left out--and I just wanted to go home and maybe play with the neighbors a bit". Of course eight-year-old didn't articulate this--but I could see it in gasps he was trying to smother in-between tears.

The problem was, that I had to make at least one more stop--needed a present for a wedding this weekend. So, eight-year-old withdrew himself from the backseat and then wrapped his arms around me in the store parking lot trying to get his crying under control. I was not the least upset with him, nor self-concious--just let him hug me until he gathered himself up. He still had his arm around me as we entered the store, so we were moving a bit slowly. I caught then out of the back corner of my eye, a woman walking patiently behind us as we were blocking her way. We quickly moved on and I nodded an apology at her.

A few minutes later in the pasta aisle, the same woman approached eight-year-old with a very calm, soothing voice, took his chin in her hand and said, "what a beautiful face."He was shy, but I could feel his body next to mine relax--and mine with his. She stood there grounded and calm, and as if this were the most natural thing in the world--to approach a stranger and her child and to offer her presence. And it WAS the most natural thing in the world. I used to love that show, "Touched by an Angel"--corny and sappy as it was, I was/am enamored by the idea of people moving in and out of our lives in ways that we can't/don't even fathom--for the sole purpose of offering love and peace.

 Eight-year-old steadied himself to finally meet her gaze and nodded at her. She smiled again and told him that he is beautiful, and then lightly touched my arm as she went on her way. I mouthed a heartfelt "thank you" to her, and the moment was over. Except that it isn't. Twenty-four hours later, I'm still thinking about it. And while filled-up by this act, I also feel a lovely debt to be this woman for another Mom.

Butterfly

For those of you who actually read this blog (not sure if I'm writing to a pretend audience?!), thought I would offer a quick update:

George is a girl.

Yep, the beloved caterpillar has emerged from its chrysalis and stretched its beautiful wings and flown away. And eight-year-old relayed this to me with an impish grin of delight because he was holding-back the information that because of the markings on the wings, it turns-out that George is really Georgina.

Things aren't always what they seem, I guess. But in the case of George/Georgina--it didn't change our adventure at all. Funny that.

Getting Old or Is this my body?

Been thinking about getting old lately. It might have been when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror the other day and did a double take because I swore it was my mother looking back at me. Perhaps it is the fact that there is very little I eat these days that doesn't get stuck between two of my back teeth--perhaps my gums are receeding?? Or the funny moles that have shown-up out of nowhere, or my left knee that aches through the first half-mile of my morning run, or that there is very little greasy or highly sugary food that doesn't either give me heartburn or leave me with a belated sugar coma. A dear friend and I were swapping these stories of our bodies betraying us the other morning at work--and we were (are?!) truly disgusted at this unnecessary assault . . . after all, we are only the tender age of 37. Growing-up I remember hearing the menopause jokes, or the elderly, "needing-a-cane" jokes, but no one ever prepared me for this wierd late 30's business. Dear friend said the same. She was disgusted by the black circles under her eyes because she hadn't gotten at least 7 hours of sleep. Ah, what happened to the days when we could do anything we wanted without asking our bodies for permission? Who knew that we wouldn't be 18 forever? 

This strange getting older business was corroborated by my big sister last night when we were pondering the fact that her 20th high school renunion is in two weeks. She nailed it on the head when she said, "I know that other people are getting older, and that they are moms with kids who are almost in high school, but not me. I just happen to be someone who is a parent--I'm still actually 18. Other people have 20th reunions, not me." I know exactly what she means, which led me to wonder if other people actually feel like they are their correct age? I'm clearly 20--not quite a child, but with all of the possibilities of my whole life ahead of me. Someone else is the 37-year-old that occasionally wears my clothes and looks back at me from the mirror with my mother's eyes.

Staying in the Moment

8-yr-old has a new friend. His name is George. George the caterpillar. George has visited our home each weekend on a field trip from school. We get to watch 8-yr-old empty his container, feed him new milkweed, and watch in awe as George grows exponentially every day. Watching my little man's joy in each incremental change has reminded me how easily and quickly I dismiss hundreds of things each day. And had George not visited our home as the beloved science-experiment-turned-pet, I would have dismissed him as just another little bug like all of the others on the sidewalk. George has reminded me that even the littlest things count--a hard reminder for my typical existential- angst- filled self. George changes so quickly, that if we were to turn away for too long, we would miss his growth--we must stay in the moment with him.

I'm thinking that maybe God thinks I need a healthy dose of bugs this week, because while I've been musing about George, two of my AP Lit students, unbeknownst to each other, chose Frost's A Considerable Speck as their poem to memorize for my class. The conversation that ensued following each recitation was fascinating to me--listening to my just-turned Seniors work their way through this very challenging read caught me up entirely. The bell rang before any of us were aware--or for that matter, ready. When the students had gathered their things and left my room, I just sat for a moment and let myself remember that it was for moments like the one we had all just shared that I spend so much time preparing--a little like George and his preparations for becoming a butterfly. He'll get there when he is ready, but in the meantime my guess is that he'll stay in the moment, blissfully unaware that he is "supposed" to be moving on.