This afternoon at the park, when it was time to go, I found David off by himself. He surprised me by not insisting that we stay longer. I noticed he had a smudge of dirt on his face, and his back was covered with wood chips. I asked him if he had fallen down. He didn't say anything, but he nodded, his lip quivered, and he reached out for a hug. David was going to cry, and it wasn't because of a broken bone or a sprained ankle--he was embarrassed. And it broke my heart.
He's gone. He slipped away without my realizing it. My uninhibited, courageous, outgoing, overconfident baby boy. Somehow with the busyness of a new baby and the drudgery of a long winter, I didn't notice that my first baby grew up. The greatest change may be David's new self-awareness, which brings awkwardness, embarrassment, and more profound disappointments. It is painful to see the disappointment on his face when he realizes that I don't understand what he is telling me. Or the awkwardness he feels with a group of older boys. Or the tears of embarrassment after a fall at the park.
This is harder on me than him, of course. I think I really,truly believed that he was always going to be that totally confident, completely unstoppable, fun-loving little daredevil. For the record, my mom tried to warn me--our temperaments and personalities as babies are not necessarily our temperaments and personalities as we grow and mature. But I thought it impossible that David would ever be anything other than a happy, self-assured free spirit. I think I believed him to be eternally immune to any real sadness, disappointment, and, in particular, wretched social awkwardness.
How can I bear it? How can I bear it? I ask this earnestly. This is only the beginning. His vulnerability is just barely emerging. Years and years of mistakes and disappointments and hurts await him. I want to protect him from them all. Shield him from everything wrong in the world.
I know, I know. We grow through our experiences. We learn and mature, and we have to be self-aware to do that. We have to taste the bitter to enjoy the sweet. I know all that. And I wouldn't ever want to deny David those opportunities for growth and deeper fulfillment.
But tonight I'm going to lay down next to my child, who is no longer a baby, and look at his peaceful face, and stroke his hair. And cry. And hope. And pray. And, just for a few minutes, pretend that he won't ever fall down again.
