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During last July’s 5.8 earthquake, 3-year-old Bronwyn told her 1-year-old sister, “We’re going for a wiggle.” READ MORE
Early Years (2-6)
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Carpe freezum! We seized the day, the snowy day. It had fallen in southeastern Orange County, freakishly early and deep, and in the San Bernardinos even deeper, where we knew that the grandparents’ mountain cabin would look like a Currier and Ives scene. So, throughout the cold, if otherwise sunny Southern California week, our family reading featured children’s wintry classics: Virginia Lee Burton’s “Katie and the Big Snow,” Jack Ezra Keats’s “The Snowy Day” and Raymond Briggs’ “The Snowman.” By the time we pulled up to the cabin, our little guy could recite the first verse of “Over the River and Through the Wood:” “Over the river and through the wood To grandmother’s house we go! The horse knows the way To carry the sleigh to the white and drifted snow ho!” And, yes, he sang it over and over, again. Down the freeway, up into the hills, through the wood. Upon arrival, our son knew what to do with his first snow. There was no time or snow to waste. Just minutes after our arrival, he was building a snowman. And the grandparents and aunts and uncles and parents who gathered around did what they do best: document yet another first in a child’s life, that moment of new joy. It was a perfect holiday opera, and we had all anticipated the expected first experience, which arrived on cue. Best of all, we were ready with a camera to document the moment. We’re prepared, camera at the ready, for a reliable series of these first moments. We anticipate these benchmark firsts, assuring cherished images for posterity. You know the ones. The first day of school. The first meeting with Santa. The first pet. The first time on a pony, on a Ferris wheel, on a carousel, on a train, on a plane. The first performance. They’re all great. But what I find I cherish most are those unexpected firsts that arrive unheralded, and whose stealth arrival carry with them a powerful emotional ambush. I don’t ever seem to have a camera to capture them, but of course their very nature defies preparation. The first time he told a story, sang a song. The first time he made a joke. The first time he recognized we were going home as we sped along the canyon road. The first time he began to put together our family: “Pop-pop is daddy’s daddy.” The first time he answered my question: “What are you doing?” with the startling reply: “I’m thinking.” Then, there was that morning not long ago when I dropped him off at the children’s center, his terrific day care facility. Weeks earlier, such transitions had been, if not tearful, certainly not easy, and while he had grown more accustomed to the nervous routine of departure, there was still some anxiety, some tension. But that morning, as we walked toward the playground, he sped ahead of me, quickly choosing a tricycle and preparing to enter the already crowded sidewalk speedway of scooters and plastic push cars. He glanced once back at me, gave a wave and shouted: “You can go to work now mom! Bye!” Hmm. First big step toward autonomy? Or, from my perspective, first pang of my own motherly separation anxiety? Either way, I wasn’t prepared, didn’t take a picture. Instead I swallowed hard and headed for my car. But I cherish that moment, and hold it in my mind, for later, when those easy departures, for school or hikes or parties or music lessons or perhaps, for that time when he packs up his backpack to fulfill that familial tradition of a summer abroad will make this one, this easy playground farewell, so much more a first. Lisa Alvarez, an English professor at Irvine Valley College, lives in Modjeska Canyon with her husband and 2-year-old son. |
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