I'm trying to pinpoint the age when a child goes from hearing laughter and applause and so they laugh and clap along because they think it's because of something they did - to - being embarrassed, humble, when someone really does laugh or clap because of something they really did do.
How I wish I could be childish in these situations still to this day. You like my blog post? Hahahaha! clapclapclap with delight. Because I do feel like responding on the inside that way, a lot, underneath the humility, and the pokey feelings that I'm glaringly undeserving. (But if I remember correctly, even as a child I never could take a compliment comfortably.)
The empty ones pile up underneath my sink and then out into the garage where they get knocked over almost weekly. So I sweep the broken glass and still wash out and still save the next one when the last pickle is eaten.
Tonight I want to capture the kids with their belly giggles while watching Tom & Jerry on the kitchen TV.
The innocence. In a glass jar with a tin lid, if I could.
I have mothered much, but I have yet to see their innocence sneak off, like I"m sure it will, when I'll tuck it in one night and find it gone one morning. [Like Peter's shadow I imagine I'll do my best to look for it and sew it back on]
One by one it will fade, when it is time. Suddenly? Will I see it happening? Or will it creep away slowly while I pay careful attention?
If the jars are here, so is childhood. A project, a bug, a button, a clump of dirt & a few blades of grass, a picked dandelion from the yard. If the jars are here, there's still something to fill.