The SMD: Present from the Past in the Present

The wondrous unifier of books and the tradition of handing down each magical stepping stone of experience is one of the best joys of raising a kid. In past entries I've bitched/moaned and related a darker underbelly of what goes on, mostly because there's an abundance of that, and it's nice to have a release from it. Write it down, let it go I always say. Thanks for listening-er-reading. Reading is where it all starts.





On the occasions (prevalent if you're aware of them and open enough to receive, some days you just ain't) where you and yours have mutual spiritual growth, it feels humbling and touching and scary. You know with every lesson learned, there's a trifle of their innocence left behind, but it's poetic somehow. The world is a jumbled mess, especially if you've only seen a sheltered slice of it. Once you start realizing there's an all encompassing cake out there (you know nothing of) the safety of childhood is less. Authors from the inception of the idea, have broached life lessons and helped us all understand. Wherever you are on the spectrum.





I'll Love You Forever by Robert Munsch was on the menu tonight, and for the first time, Logan asked me (in as solemn a tone a four-year old can have), "Did his mother die?" at the end. If you've read the book, you know it's about a mother's love despite all harrowing stages of the game, and those bonds carrying her and her son through life. I was quiet for a minute, then I replied, "Yeah, she did. We all do some day." As soon as it fell from my mouth, I grappled within my mind and tears sprang forth. Should I have told her that at her age? Should I just fudge it and tell her no? When do you address subjects like that? All in a few seconds. This job will do that to you, but truth is rarely worse than the alternative, that I know.





Instead of anger or the third degree (which are her usual reactions to mind boggling concepts), Logan said, "You mean YOU'RE going to die?" with a hint of melancholy I'd never heard before but no panic, no fear. I said, "Yeah, but not for a looooooong time. Not until you're an older grown-up." This seemed to satiate her curiosity a little, but I knew she needed something more solid.





I watched her cherub face and tried to ease the emotion tucked into it. I said, "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but right now is a gift. That's why they call it the precious present, sweetie. Life is precious." A light bulb went off somewhere behind her bright blues, and she got up from bed. She said, "I want to give you something." She went to her closet and rooted around. After about five seconds, and with a proud smile, she extended a Penguins of Madagascar toy she'd eagerly received in a Happy Meal not long ago. "For you, the best mama and for doing the things and being a lady." She thought "present" meant she needed to give me some, because I was still alive, still in her life. Maybe she thought it was why she gets so many small tokens of affection throughout the common day. Whatever the connection, it was heartfelt and joyful. An otherwise sad ordeal was replenished with tenderness and hope.





Any book that speaks to you growing up, is cemented with that kind of memory. The frightful fascination throughout Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak, the cozy comfort of lessons and truths in The Berenstain Bears series, the fantastical rhymes and reason to Dr. Seuss. If us lil' podlings hadn't read those miraculous words at that miraculous age, life would be too overwhelming. To see others (be they ducks, bears, honorary monsters or orphans) struggling to understand all the emotion, reprimands and colorful, confusing tapestry of day to day is a huge sigh of relief. For a mama/dad/grandparent to witness it, is exactly that which fuels the fire it is our duty to sustain.





Every word, picture and plight committed to page-is a reflection of life. When it's reflected back at you from a pair of comfortably wizened eyes, it's life at it's best.