I suppose I showed my age the other
day. It happened when Cailyn and I went
for a walk. That’s always a great
experience, and this time proved no different.
We went all the way to the end of the street. Seems she wanted to show me the Halloween
decorations down there which are pretty extensive. Ghosts in the trees, skeletons coming out of
the ground, bats hanging from eaves, and of course jack-o-lanterns of all
shapes and sizes, which led to a long discussion about her need to get a
pumpkin and my need to get a pumpkin and her Mommy’s need to get a pumpkin and
Nani’s need to … see what I mean about long discussion? When she completed her list of needy pumpkin
people, she determined that it was time to head back to Nani’s house. Taking my hand firmly, she announced, “We
have to look both ways before we cross the street.” That’s my girl, ever safety conscious. She took long looks in both directions and
then led me across. I felt like the
proverbial old woman being helped across the street by a Girl Scout.
Once we got to the other side she made an
exciting discovery. The first yard we encountered
was littered with treasure. That
treasure was in the form of sticks, but it was obviously treasure
nonetheless. Cailyn handed me her little
purse and began gathering as many as she could hold in her hands. I’m not sure what they were to be used for in
her rapidly developing scenario, but they were all-important pieces at that
moment in time. Finally satisfied that
she had all she needed, we continued our journey, she proudly carrying her
sticks and me strutting by her side carrying her purse.
After passing a few houses she suddenly
stopped. She turned to me with a look of
excitement, like she had just remembered where the candy was hidden or something. Thrusting her trove of sticks into my hands,
she declared, “It’s time to run now, DadDad.”
And off she went. Apparently we
were now in the home stretch and it was time to turn on the afterburners (Is
that the right word?). What I mean is, this
was no “Look at me, I can skip.” She had
already shown me that skill earlier.
Nope. This time she started
running.
Now I used to be able to keep up with her
little legs by just quickening my pace slightly. Not so any more. She is three now, and an apparent improvement
in capacity for speed is a natural part of the developmental process. No more just walking faster for the alleged “adult
in charge.” Summoning all the energy I could
muster, I broke into an all-out, no holds barred, slow jog. I was barely able to keep her in my sights,
but fortunately – and unfortunately, depending on your perspective - there were
a few neighbors out, and they kept an eye on her as she raced past. Of course that meant they also looked around
to see if this beautiful little girl was frolicking through the neighborhood on
her own. There was fire in their eyes
for the obviously incompetent parent who dared to let this little one race
through the dangerous streets all by herself.
Until their gaze finally lit on … that old guy with the purse, way back
there, chasing her with obviously every ounce of “speed” he could muster. Their expression immediately changed from
fierce, protect-the-children rage to one of … amused pity. I smiled weakly at them each time and waved a
neighborly greeting like this was our usual routine and we had everything under
control.
I managed to keep my composure and my rate
of “speed” right up until it happened. I
don’t know how it happened. One second I
was jogging merrily along and the next there I was, flat on my face, sprawled
out on the sidewalk amid splintered sticks and a well-protected purse, held
closely to my chest. Yep. I just fell.
Didn’t hit anything that I saw. Just
stumbled. Scraped up my knee a bit. Jarred everything else. I definitely felt it in my elbows, those
storehouses of RA soreness. But I jumped
right up. OK, I slowly scraped myself
off the ground, looking around to see if any the neighbors witnessed the
event. I was already preparing my “It’s
OK, I’m fine” speech, but thankfully I didn’t need it. A strategically parked car had blocked the
view of the nearest potential witness. I
was in the clear.
I made it home. Cailyn, who had already been inside and had a
drink of water, greeted me with, “Where’s my sticks, DadDad?” The sticks.
Alas. I had forgotten them in my
haste to regain my dignity, er, I mean my feet, my balance, my … OK, my
dignity. I apologized for leaving the
sticks, but about then she saw my battle scar, my scraped knee. It was bleeding, and that, of course, is a
crisis. All thoughts of imagined
treasure vanished, replaced by the urgency of concern. I didn’t reject her compassion. She led me inside and like a little nurse she
helped Chris bandage it. And that, as
they say, made it all better. I wonder
if they make bandaids for an old ex-athlete’s injured pride?
Psalms 34:7 says, “The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and he
delivers them.”
Father, thank you for the little angel you
sent us who we call Cailyn. Amen.
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