Those moments when
time seems to stand still.
A few days ago I had
finished loading groceries onto the conveyor belt and looked over to
the other end where my tween was bagging them, just in time to see
Adam’s Peanut Butter fall to the ground. The glass jar shattered
into a million pieces, gluing itself to the brown, oily goo it had
encased seconds before.
My hands covered my
face. This child. Just like this. All week.
I pulled my hands
away, and there he was. His head hung and his shoulders hunched,
weighed down by an invisible burden.
This was a critical
moment: perhaps the kind where “core memories” are made. I saw
before me two paths: one in which I followed through with my
knee-jerk reaction to unload my own embarrassment and frustration
onto the weight he was already carrying, adding another “chop” to
his self-value, shaming myself, and further hammering the wedge that
had forced its way between us earlier in the week.
I chose the other
path. I walked forward, gently said his name, and told him it would
be okay.
“Look,” I said,
“People are already coming to help us.”
A worker reached us
and poured a grainy powder over the goo. The checker began telling
stories about stuff other people had dropped (apparently sesame oil
creates a nasty stench).
The worker scooping
the peanut butter asked my son if he wanted to go get another jar. We
described where to find it, and he hurried off, proud to be thought
responsible enough for the task.
The mess cleaned up,
the groceries bagged, peanut butter in tow, we went home.
A lump forms in my
throat when I think of this brief incident. Partly because of the
path I might have chosen, partly because I have thoughtlessly chosen
that other path before, and mostly relieved that, at least this time,
I made a better choice.
All parents make
mistakes sometimes.
All children carry
silent burdens sometimes.
Please, everyone,
let’s choose to lift that weight rather than add to it.
At least sometimes.