Growing

My nephew Jackson started his first day of kindergarten today. I'm in serious danger of sounding like a blithering cliche, but it seems like only an hour ago that my stepsister brought Jack over to my house for the first time. He was a tiny little  bundle of flesh; a vague and fussy being that I wasn't sure how to interact with. I was terrified of holding him the wrong way and breaking him in some permanent sort of way.

Five years have passed since that curious November night, and so much has changed. He is going to "real" school now, and I comfortably interact with infants on a daily basis. I feel that we have both come into our own (so to speak). He has developed into a verbally sophisticated, and devilishly clever child. He  possesses an irresistible combination of rough and tumble boyishness, and snarky confidence. He manages to carry an exuberance for life and experience that could melt any jaded soul. But beware, this boy is sharp. He seems to absorb and imitate adult conversation and innuendo like a specialized little sponge. He also has that rare and wonderful appreciation for the outdoors; he's a nature boy (as the Talking Heads would say). One day he carried a sprightly grasshopper to his mother's open (and unassuming) palm. He informed her with absolute certainty "This grasshopper is so handsome, just like me." Needless to say, much revelatory laughter ensued. I have no doubt that he will charm the cardigan sweater off of any schoolteacher who might stand in his way.

My own personal progress has been quite the contrast. Jackson has grown-up, I have grown down. In the last two years I have learned the importance of play. I have learned the crucial need for absolute silliness; the need to make funny faces in the mirror- just to make yourself laugh. Blowing bubbles for the hell-of-it. Singing loudly to music, even if you don't know the lyrics. Crying when you feel sad. Dancing when you need to express yourself in all of your awkward glory. The joy of existence. As simple as it might seem, this joy was absolutely lost on me for a very long time. I can't exactly explain why, but in my younger years, I seemed to consider myself a serious person-with very serious motivations in life. While this might be the makings of an extremely impressive person- one bound for glory and success, in my case, it was a recipe for disastrous depression. I moped- hardcore-for years. I found the lifelong task of somberness to be a considerable burden. As you can see, I wouldn't exactly be a good fit to care for small children. However, last year I began working at a daycare center. This vocational shift aided greatly to my Dorian Gray-esque experience. Working with babies has slowed me down, taught me patience, and displayed my glaring blind spots. Their need for love and affection cuts me to the proverbial quick. It's so simple and basic- they smile at the sight of me. It blows my mind- the idea of being so emotionally dependent on others! I have developed such a neurotic, numb shell that I forget the sensation of raw living. I consider it a privilege and a gift to be able to nurture, play, and adore the babies I get to work with. They bring me back to the core of human reality.