Friday, December 4, 2009

Hold Me Closer Tiny Dancer

The morning air was cold, but in a good way; a refreshing sort of way. I put a determined look on my face as if to say, "I'm going to get something done today, even though it's cold." Luckily, my coat was warm, and my pockets deep. My first task was complete: taking all my junk out to the car. I usually had my briefcase, my thermos, my lunch, and some extra books/folders that didn't make it back into my briefcase. Today, I just had my briefcase and my phone charger (since I had forgotten to charge my phone the night before).

I went back to the house for my precious cargo. Her name is Penelope. She'll be two on Sunday, and she's a real riot. When I opened up the door she was climbing into her booster chair saying, "Berfest. Berfest," which I understood to mean breakfast and sighed in mild disappointment. The household never functions very well when mommy is sick, and I was already running pretty late because I had suddenly and unexpectedly thrown up after brushing my teeth. I had considered staying home; but then, as my to-do list started running through my mind, I thought better of the idea and decided I had better get some work done today.

I managed to trick her out the door with a bowl of dry fruit-loops I promised she could have as soon as she was in her car-seat. I buckled her in and asked if she could keep from making a mess with her cereal. She nodded in agreement. I walked around the car, enjoying more of the cold air and wondering why she would only silently nod her head to say yes, but quickly shouted the word "NO" anytime she disapproved of anything.

I checked the clock as I made my first turn. I was already eleven minutes late, and I had a sixteen minute commute, plus an extra nine minutes today because I was dropping off Penelope. Plus, I left work after dark the night before and had thus forgotten to grab my sunglasses, so I was having to squint around the low morning sun as it glared off everything at every possible angle.

As I slowed down to make it through the first school zone, I began thinking through my to-do list. There must be at least two-dozen things that have to be finished today. If I play my cards right, some things can be put off until Monday. But, I'd probably be working over the weekend anyway. Suddenly, the second school zone snuck up on me. I braked hard and glanced around for black and whites. Black and whites, who am I, John Dillinger? Just like embracing the cold morning air somehow made me more of a man. Good one Wilson, just get to work already.

I pulled into the empty parking lot as Penelope shouted, "Pay Pace!" She equated her daycare with one of those giant plastic mazes at Chick-Fil-A. I contemplated this connection as I circled the car. On one hand, it was supposed to be a learning center. On the other hand, she's two, and she doesn't hate the place, so what's the big deal. I opened the car door and reached into the back seat to retrieve her. Whoever thought a two-door SUV would be a good idea? What a waste of resources.

I had to lean the front seat forward and put my foot in the floorboard behind it just to reach far enough back to unbuckle her. I took her cereal bowl and put it on the center console, hoping she'd forget about it (They eat breakfast at the daycare). I pulled her out of her seat and began moving backwards, one foot still in the car. She peeked over to her cereal bowl, but didn't whine when I didn't reach for it. Once I got a hold of her, I took a step backwards. My foot was caught in the seat-belt.

Suddenly, I was falling backwards, uncontrollably. We briefly made eye contact. She starred plainly at me as if to say, "I trust you," and then shut her eyes as I hugged her close. This I did with my left hand as I covered the back of her beautiful red head with the other. Waiting for my back to hit the ground was like waiting for an empty bottle of honey to drain. We inched toward the asphalt.

Every moment of that precious child's short life scurried through my mind. The day she was born. The three days after that in the hospital. This very morning when I had hurried her out the door and every day in between. The first time she had looked at me and smiled. The first time she first rolled over, crawled, and walked. The first time I heard her laugh. The first time she kissed me on the cheek. The first time she said, "I Love You Daddy."

The ground approached us faster, and yet, slower at the same time.

I thought of her playing her toy piano and singing at the top of her lungs. I thought of her two little arms up above her head, trying to dance like Barbie and the Nutcracker on TV. I thought of her tiny whisper voice, saying, "Goodnight, Daddy," just before I closed her door at night.

I squeezed her tight. Surely the ground was near.

I even thought of every moment that had not yet graced her life. Her first day of school. Her first piano recital. Her first basketball game. Her 16th birthday. Her first boyfriend. Her first day of college. Her engagement. Her wedding.

The asphalt was suddenly upon us. I closed my eyes in fear.

The world was silent. She lifted her eyes and looked deeply into mine. I still trust you daddy. For one brief moment, the whole world made sense. For one instant, I understood the turning of the world and the meaning of life as if I could see it all at once. "Are you okay?" I asked, breathing again for the first time. She pushed herself off my chest and stood up. She glanced over to the car and then grabbed my hand to help me up. We walked back to the car and examined the scene. Following her instructions, I leaned the seat back and forced the seat-belt to wind itself. She pointed into the car and said, "Searoe Bow Peas." "Sure, baby," I replied. I grabbed the bowl and picked her up and we headed for the door. "I love you, Penelope." "I love you, daddy," she smiled as she laid her head on my chest. All was right with the world. The world was in my arms.