H desperately wanted to carry nine crayons in one hand upstairs at bedtime tonight. Every time a few slipped to the ground, he cried out in frustration before squatting down to pick them up. Finally, after one too many drops, he threw them all on the floor, flailed his arms, and gave out a plaintive wail. I picked him up and snuggled him in empathy, because I know. I know how frustrating it can be to bump up against one’s limitations, especially when you don’t yet know you will overcome them. I continued to hold him close as we climbed the stairs, H carrying the crayons he could and me the rest.
On our way up, I sent this silent wish out to the universe:
May you always be pushing yourself, sweet pea, so as to discover where you struggle, for those are the places from which your greatest growth, joy, and fulfillment will come. When you stumble and fall, as you will, I will help you get up until you can do so yourself. I promise to be right there always, if not in body then in your heart, believing in and celebrating you every step of the way. I love you. I see you. I believe in you. Keep going.
We made it to the top of the stairs with all nine crayons. We did it together tonight, but sometime very soon, I know, H will be doing it himself.
I love him. I see him. I believe in him.