Highwire Act

Her arms still have a margin of baby plumpness, a soft rounding in their upper halves. The skin, taut and supple, silky, feels like the return of a caress as my bare arms encircle her small self. She sits on my lap on this breezy summer day, burrowed into the curve of my body, a tickle of her hair brushing my nose, her scent like lavender and sunshine and child skin warm from play. For a moment, I am holding my baby, still and close, a crystalline sensation of being wrapped up in each other, enjoying the silence.

And then her laughter bursts our bubble. She flits away on sturdy, four-year-old legs, and I am left with an empty lap, a sharp intake of breath, a stinging reminder that, though her arms still have a margin of baby plumpness, she is no longer a baby.

He rolls over, our bodies close, our heads closer, as we stare together at the pages of the book. I am reading aloud and he is listening, pointing to the inset details about vampire bats, relishing the fact that he can read along if he chooses. I am amazed by his prowess. At six, he is engrossed in books, fascinated by words.

And yet, the most banal of puns, a bit of potty humor, or even just a silly voice can set him off in peals of giggles that evoke for me a cherished memory of his barely-toddling self. The day he laughed so hard at a rolling toy car that he literally fell over onto the floor, the better to enjoy the whole-body experience of laughter.

I am reading to him now, at six, and we come to a funny part, and--our heads close together--we take in the joke and burst into peals of exuberant, spontaneous, uncontrolled laughter. We look at each other and laugh harder, reveling in the intimacy of a shared joke. And he is one and six and twenty all in that instant.

She is serious and attentive at ballet. Talkative, dreamy, stubborn and opinionated at home, she spends thirty minutes each week intently focused. She watches herself and her teacher closely in the mirror.  The small pink legs, the floating pink skirt, the soft pink ballet slippers...she controls them all. To be sure, the remnants of the baby belly protrude slightly over the skirt; the slight roundness of her soft toddler arms is curved over her head.

But with her hair swept up, there is a moment when I see in the arch of her neck, the much older, more graceful creature she will become. Poised. She stands poised between baby and child. Leaping in slow motion towards the glory of Bigger Stronger More Coordinated.

He is learning chess. He can see the consequences of his own moves and anticipate those of his opponent. He almost always beats me at checkers and soon will far outstrip me in chess. 

It has only been two weeks since he first touched a chess board.

It is as if his mind is only capable of growing exponentially as he learns things in enormous, greedy gulps.

He is teaching her chess.

She independent and capable. She can entertain herself for an hour with her art box or her dollhouse. She can reach the water to wash her hands--and remembers to do so every time she goes to the potty. She can have a conversation, tell you a story about something that happened when you weren't there, feel deep empathy for her brother's pain.

And yet, she melts into a whining puddle if I do not let her finish her rambling non-question of a question before I let Daddy interrupt to ask if we turn left at the light or not.

He seems so much older than six.  He is polite and brave and thoughtful in a crisis...in a crisis of his own. Getting stitches, he has a level of patience that makes me proud. I am awed by his concerted efforts to remember his "please" and "thank you" while speaking through a swollen, numbed, gauze-filled mouth and out from under a sterile drape.

And then, he wants to sit on my lap. To be held close, to have his hair stroked and his back rubbed. To feel still and small and protected.

Our lives, I feel almost every day, are a balancing act of epic proportions.  How do I hold them tight, keep them here small and loving and close? How do I know which moments are right for letting them test their wings?  Where do I balance the laughter with the correction, the quiet moment of snuggling a lap child with the practical fact that I can hardly carry him up the stairs any more? Where exactly is that line, the one I dread overstepping but cannot seem to find, between being too protective and not protective enough?

I look down into my safety net and I see infant coos, toddler laughter so enormous it cannot be contained in the mouth but invades the whole body, impetuous kisses, deep looks that pass between our matched pairs of brown eyes, shouted greetings at the end of a long day, quiet hands slipping into mine as we cross the grocery store parking lot.

And I take another step along with wire. Balancing. Balancing. Dreading their growing up and infatuated with it.  Longing for what is past as much as I anticipate the next big achievement. Wondering whether tomorrow's hug will come from still-round toddler arms or suddenly-slim little girl ones.

Balancing.