“But to be most effective, the faces of the children would need to be painted in a blur, the way all children’s faces truly are. For they blur as the run; they blur as they grow and change so fast; and they blur to keep us from loving them too deeply, for their protection, and also for ours.” –Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister
In the past week, I got to visit my babies that I’ve had the privilege of watching live. My baby cousins, now little boys with hobbies and voices and lives, and the children I babysit, now in preschool and building Lego houses, are not the tiny ones I once knew. I have held them and fed them bottles, burped them and felt their tiny fingers squeeze my own. I have propped them on my hips and stroked their wispy hair. And now they are all walking, talking tiny people. They like some food, hate others. They tell jokes and giggle and tell me stories. They say my name and climb into my lap all on their own. In the past four years, I have stagnated and life has passed with no noticeable changes. For them, life has made them unrecognizable. I love their little toddler voices and the little boy stories they tell.
To see these children grow is bittersweet. They bring us all so much joy as they develop and change. They become more complete and whole as we watch. I do not see them nearly as often as I would like, so each time I meet new children, find new little lives that have developed. I watch as their scribbles straighten into shaky letters and words. Their steps stabilize and evolve into endless running. I love seeing them become more every day, but I miss those tiny bodies that slept and cried and just wanted to be cuddled. It’s the pull everyone feels, every parent agonizes over: an ache to keep the baby frozen in time and an excitement to watch the child come into their own.
I watched Voyage of the Dawn Treader this week too. The Chronicles of Narnia were a fixture of my childhood. I can remember sitting on the couch, next to my dad, in my brothers’ room, listening to the stories before bed. But, in the scariest way possible, the memories are fading. They stories are hard to remember, the details vague. I can’t remember the nightgown I wore or which side of my dad I sat on. I remember the story time, feel my heart swell each time I hear the books even mentioned, but the details are fuzzy. It scares me that twenty years have melted away and that life will never return.
Watching the movie, I lost it and cried uncontrollably as the children slept on a dark beach. They lay next to the fire, Eustace quietly crying his giant dragon tears. I felt that fear, that pain so deeply. I wake up and have no idea how I became this monster, this grown-up with freedom and power and authority. I don’t know where my old life went and how I managed to let it slip away. It is lonely and uncertain and all I can think is how much I want to be back home with my parents protecting me. Somehow, my life got away from me. That story, those words that lulled me to sleep all those nights, are forever a memory, never again reality. I don’t get to go back, to return to those nights. This, more than anything, breaks my heart.
I marvel at the little lives I get to watch unfold. I am a witness to their stories being written, their memories branded, their persons formed. I love knowing more of them, privy to more of their thoughts and ideas and joys. I do mourn the quiet, small times when they couldn’t play tee ball or chase after the dog. I miss the soft weight of their tiny bodies curled against my chest. I am trying to remember to enjoy them just as they are, each time I see them. It is exciting to tell my parents about the changes they have to miss, the wonders of the everyday. As I was told all about cars and school, I was just struck by how fast is has all gone by. It is a reminder that each day is only here for a moment, that things change and people grow. The first girls I ever babysat are now graduating from high school.
The years streak by and there is joy in the changes that they bring. The danger is not savoring the changes as they come, enjoying the process of life. The more I drink in the present and force myself to be present, the more salient the memories become, sinking deeper into me. Those nights, listening to stories of dragons and fauns and witches, my mind was not wandering. I was not worried about the next day or regretting the one passed. I was quiet and still, drinking in the story as it happened.
“…Stop this train I want to get off and go home again/ I can’t take this speed it’s moving in/ I know I can’t/ ‘Cause now I see I’ll never stop this train…” –John Mayer, “Stop This Train”