Waxing Poetic

Some days it’s hard to write because I haven’t had any great thoughts all day long. My days are filled with sidewalk chalk and rattles; matchbox cars and impromptu, pretend games; eating food at certain intervals like I’m checking it off my to do list; changing loads of laundry, remembering what can be dried, what needs to hang; worrying about expenses; answering innumerable questions. These questions range from “why do we talk to God?” to “isn’t this train the silliest one you ever seed in your whole wide world?” But then, sometimes, right in the crux of the thoughtless, mindless day, Henry will break upon profundity. He will utter words so unintentionally wise that they make me catch my breath, and I want to run here to put it down, to let my wheels turn on it: on the absolute beauty and simplicity in the way he sees the world. Child wonder.

Ever since he visited his 5 and 7 year old cousins last weekend, my 2 and a half-year old has been really into superheroes. Really, really into them. “I don’t like Dora. I want to watch Spiderman.” This has raised so many parenting questions for me. I’ve obviously already given up on not letting him watch a lot of tv, but now I’m suddenly faced with age-appropriateness, violence issues, and the biggest one—am I ready for my little boy to become an actual boy who likes heroes and villains and action figures? So I did what I often do, I consulted my own upbringing. And though my parents were very strict with movie ratings (no PG-13 until I was actually 13, which meant I had to skip almost everyone’s birthday party in 5th grade because they all seemed to want watch Dirty Dancing, the only movie I wanted to see so bad it hurt, but it was PG-13 and I was 11. Finally, one of the moms took pity on me watching a kids movie with her younger children and told me to go ahead and watch Dirty Dancing, she wouldn’t tell my mom) I remember watching Superman when I was around 3. So I rented and watched it with Henry. At one point, Superman is talking to his father and Henry asks me why he’s talking to him—isn’t he dead? I explained that his father was still in his heart and so he was sort of talking to him, but yes he was dead. “It’s kind of like the way we talk to god when we pray. You talk to God, don’t you?” “No,” he answered. “Does God talk to you?” I asked. “Yes,” he nodded seriously. “What does he say?” Henry held up his finger right by his cheek the way he always does when he knows an answer or is stating a fact and said, “First, he said ‘get the wax out of your ears,’ then he said to love people. Yes, get the wax out of your ears and love people.”

And there it was: a jewel of wisdom plucked from his little brain. A truth for me, so valuable it may have come from God himself; Henry only the messenger. How can we possibly hear God with all this wax in our ears? Daily noise and staticky buzzing electronics; the hum of the tv, the pull of the computer—even the things I love and the people I love can become impediments. Love people. And get that wax out of your ears!