Our granddaughter Isabelle is now two years old, speaking in sentences and learning how to work with the world. Along the line she started calling others “honey,” most likely because that’s what she’s been called; either that or in a past life she was a coffee shop waitress. In any case, when Isabelle calls me honey she gets almost anything she wants. At the moment, it’s chocolate.
We introduced Isabelle to chocolate perhaps six months ago. At that time her teeth were fewer, and eating chocolate meant breaking off tiny bites with her front teeth while I held the wafer. Today she insists on holding the chocolate herself, but continues to take tiny bites. As I watch she looks up at me, then holds out the wafer and says “Have a little bite, honey.” At such moments, it’s not just the chocolate that’s melting.
Isabelle is in love with the world, and there’s a lesson in that for all of us. If we are out and about she’ll say “Do you see that car there?” or “Do you see that person walking?” There is nothing that she finds boring. I bought some tangerines that came wrapped in purple nylon mesh, slit it open and emptied the fruit into a bowl. We shared peeling and eating one tiny tangerine while the purple mesh, knotted at one end and sealed at the other, sat empty on the dining room table. “Look! It’s a fish, honey!” she said, and reached for the softly pliable mesh. We played for half an hour as our purple mesh fish swam around the salt and pepper and poked its head through the open handle of a tea tray. She laughed, I laughed and the world was just fine.
As adults, we regret the past and worry about the future, but for Isabelle there’s little of that. Isabelle is mostly present in the moment. The other night my wife and I were babysitting while our daughter and her husband went to their first movie in years. Isabelle clutched a stuffed animal, “This is my friend Woof-Woof,” she said, “Pet him, honey.” My hand smoothed the soft artificial fur while she nodded. “My mom is going to pick me up,” she suddenly proclaimed, and mysteriously within a minute we heard a soft rapping at the door.
Sometimes while on the play structure at the playground Isabelle feels scared. “Can you help me, honey?” she asks and I do, of course. Helping her has made me realize how hard it is for me to ask for help when I need it. I’m not talking about physical help, but emotional help when I’m feeling anxious or uncertain. Adult men must be strong, I was told and part of me believes it. My wiser part, however, thinks adulthood is a myth. So I’m paying more respect to how I feel.
I thought I was helping Isabelle. Turns out she was helping me.
