This is a sample of what my 10-year-old Anna scribbled at the table yesterday while I was washing dishes. There are artists on both sides of her family whose genes deserve much of the credit (sadly, they skipped right over me). Anna learned to draw from watching YouTube videos. It must be amazing to be able to pick up a pencil and create magic.
I have family albums filled with pictures of this kid’s hand.
Why’s that? Because every time he glimpses a camera, his hand immediately springs across his face like a shamed celebrity dodging the Paparazzi. Any pictures I have of him from 2010 on are blurred shots of his profile in failed attempts to catch him off guard.
This week, as the planets shifted into perfect alignment, I pointed a camera in his direction–and he looked directly into the lens and smiled.
Even after a quarantine void of haircuts, I knew this moment had to be documented. Because if I had to bet on what will come first–Tyler’s next smile for the camera or the next celestial alignment of 2190–my money’s on the planets.
Once I entered middle age, I did myself the favor of dropping my high expectations. For every situation, I imagine the worst possible outcome, and the actual one is almost always better in comparison. When someone promises to do something, I brace myself for disappointment, and on occasion, I’m pleasantly surprised.
I haven’t schooled my children on this way of thinking yet, because they’re at that golden age where they expect the best out of their lives and the people in it. Watching it is bittersweet.
This morning, I held Bonnie, our Russian tortoise, up to my mouth, said, “Care for a Bonnieburger?” and took an imaginary bite out of her butt.
Anna watched, then replied, “She’s going to poop in your mouth.”
Real-life training is one of the most difficult parts of parenting. It’s always easier during those rare moments when they train themselves.
After a live AC/DC performance (my own), it occurred to me that I am incapable of pronouncing “dynamite” with an “a.”
