Like A Watermark October 10, 2014

They say it killed the cat. I sure hope that isn’t true, because something is in full bloom around here. Curiosity. From the ground up, it is in literally everything dear baby Carter does all day.

The toys, the cardboard discovery tunnel my forever parents built for him, the furniture. These are all more obvious things I suppose one would expect a child of nine months to explore. Things that are catching mom and dad off guard are the less obvious things, like inside the cabinets, the dishwasher and literally every object that is within an arm’s reach for him.

I realized today it’s kind of funny, since I wouldn’t dare venture anywhere but my designated toy bin for play things, it seems this is all Carter ever does – explore things outside the box. I think it’s all part of his development, because mom and dad certainly do (albeit cautiously) celebrate his discovery and appreciation of things.

And I suppose it brings some joy to my heart, as well. To see him using his little mind to figure things out, and the joy it brings my people to observe it happening. Even if it is something as seemingly insignificant as a spoon.

This thing called perspective is interesting in these memorable family moments. It reminds me a bit of a watermark, which (I admittedly had to look up to make sure I knew the proper definition of) is a recognizable image or pattern in paper that appears as various shades of light or darkness when viewed by transmitted light.

Right now, that light is in dear baby Carter’s heart as he explores things in his world for the first time. Right now, that “curiosity is the wick in the candle of learning,” as American inspirational writer William Arthur Ward suggested. I can say I agree, as I watch the impact this candle has on my little family. The joy it brings.

So I sure hope this thing called curiosity doesn’t kill the cat. Or anyone for that matter. Because from where I’m sitting (or laying, depending on the time of day), it’s definitely my new favorite source of joy from the ground up.

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Everything’s Going To Be All Right February 17, 2014

I dropped the ball today. It was kind of like that movie scene where you see what’s coming before it happened. I saw it and then it happened. One minute Carter and I were lounging together comfortably. The next he was rolling.

It’s my doggie understanding that rolling behavior from a seven-week-old baby is normally something to be celebrated. Its something of a developmental marker the doctors tell new parents to monitor. Except when it happens like this.

We were on the ottoman together. And then we weren’t. I saw it and then I heard it. The pain cry, as mom has come to call it. Usually it happens when he accidentally scratches his face or something. This was different. Mom was coming back from the bathroom when it happened.

And in that moment I think we both felt like failures. Me, because I couldn’t stop the inevitable from happening. Mom, because she took her eyes off the situation in time of need. So she swooped him up and I was at the ready to do whatever I needed to do to help. I stayed underfoot (a place I can’t say I was entirely welcome in this situation) as mom paced and swayed with him and called the doctor.

My mind raced hopelessly with all of the most terrible of outcomes. My heart skipped a beat when he stopped crying a few minutes later. In a complete emotional frenzy, I kissed him all over just as soon as it was physically possible to do so. And then came a very powerful message from the doctor’s office.

It’s the first time, but it won’t be the last that he does something we’re not expecting. And it’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay. I heard the nurse say it, and I heard mom repeat it (a few times) before I released the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. It’s going to be okay. Even though I dropped the ball, he is going to be okay.

It’s a powerful message to be sure, yet I think we all need to hear it from time to time. Sometimes we don’t even know how badly we need to hear it until we hear the words out loud. Until we release the breath we didn’t realize we’d been holding. But that’s only the first part of the puzzle.

The second is in believing it. These things happen sometimes. It’s like those movie scenes when you see what’s coming before it happens. And then it does. In this case the scene that follows is looking good – there don’t seem to be any warning signs that the fall had any negative impact whatsoever. So for now we have no choice. When all else fails we need to believe everything’s going to be all right.