It feels like everything is happening all at once. I guess I knew it would go fast. But sheesh. At this rate he'll be in high school next week. It really feels like it's almost too much sometimes. This is just the realest thing I've ever experienced. And I can't help but stare straight into it, even if it hurts. I can't be the only one who feels so deeply about the moments I share with my child. Looking back, looking forward, realizing that this won't last forever, it's hard. It hurts to stay in this space of reflection, and I think that's why we inherently look away. We distract ourselves from the pain of living with pleasant things, if we can. But it is that very pain that gives us our deepest joy.
I've avoided writing here for some time now. I think that I've feared I'll come across as weak, even if only to myself. Why do I feel my tears represent my weakness? Even though I thought I didn't, I do. I feel like I have to write, and if I don't, then I never will. I wish I could be nonchalant about the way life hits me. Then I could operate more effectively in my life. I could play my guitar more often because I wouldn't have to decide, well, do I want to spend the next half-hour sobbing on the floor? So I've been reading a lot more books. We all know we're supposed to cherish life. It goes quick. And what goes even quicker are these beautiful, difficult, impossibly special days (he's already FOUR) that are just impossible to bottle up and save for later. But still, for the life of me, I have to try.
It's the old cliche. Time flies. And this fact has never been so agonizingly clear. I can't hug him tight enough. I can't take a picture of the sound of his laugh. There are so many little faces, gestures and utterances that I'll never catch on camera. I am determined to be here, with him, as presently as I can be, so I have something to hold onto when times change, as they have always promised to.
I caught you when you came into this world, Roland. My hands were the first to touch you. Your mother and I formed a cocoon around you for your first year and watched as you confidently began to break out of it. Now you run and hide and jump and laugh and scream with childish innocence as you explore the space around you. Today, before the rain came, we worked to prepare the garden. You are an honest help with that rake. We played hide and seek at the library and this morning we had a "pillow fight." That is, we chased each other around throwing this tiny pillow at each other, and it was just amazing. Behind my cackling laughter I was consciously aware of an aching warmth in my heart, and at least a single tear in my eye. Then we made pancakes. The smallest things are often the most memorable, the most worth remembering. I don't know how much of this you will remember, but I hope that you never forget how close we've been since before you even took your first breath.
It's amazing the amount of growth that takes place over such short periods of time. For him and for me. It's inspiring, and exciting. I always want to know what he did at school, if he had any conflicts. I find myself reflecting on my own process of maturation after a particularly emotional day, which is pretty much all the time. He knows his letters, and is learning to sound out words on the page. He can communicate, and we have to remind ourselves that just because he can use his words, doesn't mean he will always realize that he can. He was just a baby like yesterday, after all.
Above everything else, patience is the attribute that is tested most for all of us, and it is also the most important. It's what he needs from me. As he searches for the boundaries of life, it's my job to reveal them to him as clearly and gently as I can. As a dad, I come into direct contact with my own insufficiencies on a regular basis. I'm only human, and it's never been more evident. Cleaning, tidying, organizing, all are very difficult. I attribute much of my mess to the fact that I'm back in college. I'm busy. It's no excuse. But I can't be too hard on myself, either. I'll go crazy if I get into my head thinking I'm going to pass on every negative character trait to this helpless child who would do better with a "real" role model. I care deeply about my family, and I know I'm not perfect, but I'm here, so I must be doing okay. I hope.
He fell asleep in my arms tonight as the ending credits of Land Before Time VII: The Stone of Cold Fire ran on the TV screen. The Gallimimus, known as "rainbow faces", sang this song that acted as a motif of the movie called "Beyond the Mysterious Beyond." It was about how we can't know what we don't know, and how important it is to question what we think of as "everything." A couple times Roland has told me he knows everything. I now tell him, "then you know how much there is to learn!" An open mind, an imagination, is a privilege, and it is cultivated with compassion and empathy. To try and understand someone or something is the essence of love. Love is understanding. In my opinion, proper living is deepening our understanding of being alive.
"Fire melts ice," he told me a few months ago as he completed his art project at the table in Slate Library down the street from his Giving Tree. I thought to snap a picture. In a few short years he has gone from "Da," and "Ba," and "Uh-huh," and "Whoa," to creating conceptual art and describing it to me. He can ride a two-wheeler with no training wheels. "Snowball," his dog name, still comes out "Soba," but for the most part the days of me having to decode what he is trying to tell me are over. Now we try to tease out the memories he's got which I don't. Those memories are important, I tell him. These are really special times. But I can't leave it up to him to do all the remembering. Home videos and blog posts can only grab so much. Photos get lost. The truest essence of life I've ever experienced is in the moment our eyes connect at the end of a school day, and he runs to me, jumping and wrapping his legs around my torso. "I was missing you." I wonder how much longer I'll be able to hold him, and squeeze him like this. It sure goes quick.
