Hearts to love with

The title of this blog post comes from Kali's comment to me (Jason) this evening after I tucked her in. We have this bedtime ritual where she declares me her night-time routine "machine" (potty-going machine, tooth-brushing machine, tucking-in machine). I make jerky motions, speak in a monotone, and sometimes suffer malfunctions and almost make the kinds of mistakes that only a machine literally carrying out orders or failing to recognize the subtle distinctions between the various tubes of self-care products found in our bathroom (say, toothpaste versus hemorrhoidal ointment) could make. After "the machine" mechanically pressed Kali's head onto the pillow and abruptly flumped the covers over her in a typically unemotional parroting of the ordinary, more tender parent-child ritual, "it" leaned over stiffly and planted a vacant smooch in the exact middle of her forehead. "Oh." She said. "I didn't know machines had hearts to love with." It was hard to keep the emotion out of the monotoned response, "Sometimes. They. Do."

In other news, we've seen our first groundhog of the year. Up close. Real close. Smudges-on-the-doorglass close. Jump-and-scream-and-curl-your-toes close, as it were. He or she was first spotted trotting towards the house from the area of the garden and woods, looking considerably less obese than was surely the case last fall. I was surprised to see it out and about with snow still on the ground, but I have to admit it was a lovely day, and, hey, this is 2010: so far, nearly all of 2010 has had snow on the ground, so it's not like there was a lot of choice. Anyway, it got so close to the front wall of the house that I couldn't see it out the window anymore, and it seemed to be on the move...I assumed it was looking for a new den site for the year. Curious about what it would decide and what mishaps might befall it (little did I know) during the exploration, I hurried outside to observe. It wasn't on the west side of the house, so I went around to the east, where our front entrance is. I just saw its tail disappear behind the storage bin full of outdoor toys we keep on the front porch, and heard it scratching around back there. No good could come of that, so I went to stir the pot a little, hoping to discourage the idea of hanging out on our porch.

Simultaneously, Kali and Janelle approached the front door and opened it. It seemed Kali had seen the restless rodent peering in the front door, where it had left smudges as evidence. I told them where the dude was, and they watched with interest as I grabbed a small plastic sled and banged it around behind the storage bin. This resulted in the groundhog exiting the space behind the storage bin and retracing its steps (which led straight towards the open door, with Kali and Janelle standing innocently in its opening) at full speed. The lumbering marmot passed about 4 inches in front of Kali's bare toes, which reflexively curled towards her heels while her electrified mind set her muscles on the course of a useless, paralyzing spasm. It's the old fight or flight--or panic--syndrome.

I'll congratulate myself for following the right instinct in that moment. One inner voice compelled me to lunge towards the developing situation in order to protect my daughter from being nipped on the toes. This could not have helped. The other inner voice noticed that the door was open, and figured it might be best to hold still and let the noise automatically being generated by the two figures in the doorway be sufficient deterrent to any potential toe-nipping OR entry into a cozy-looking (if paradoxical) sunny cavern; i.e., our home. I followed the advice of the second voice, and the groundhog passed straight by the open door without hesitation and lit out for the safety of the woods.

Janelle immediately began laughing and exclaiming with the exquisite pleasure of a person who has been surprised in a big way and has come close to a mighty unpleasant situation but yet stands unscathed. But that was because she was behind Kali, and couldn't see her face, which was still contorted with horror, she having not yet recovered her breath from her first silent, wrenching wail. I interrupted Janelle's mirth with a sober, "Um...she's not happy." As soon as Kali was able to inhale, she exhaled again and again in sobs that were no longer anywhere near silent. This brown, hairy, interesting, living, lunky, energetic thing had abruptly invaded her world (not to mention her personal space). It was too, too much new information for anyone to reasonably assimilate: hysterics were clearly indicated, and were accordingly supplied.

Parents can do their best to comfort their child in this kind of situation, but we must understand that our powers of consolation are no match for adrenaline...we just need to let them know they are o.k., we are o.k., the groundhog is o.k. (and is elsewhere), and give the body time to settle out of it. The transition from absolute shock and horror to moving on to the next fun thing took all of about 30 seconds. Kids are amazing.

I doubt the groundhog's recovery was quite so swift. I'm imagining the entry posted on ITS blog tonight: "Towering Cave-dwelling Bipeds Employ Sneaky Sled-rattling and Sudden Piercing Shrieks as Sole Territorial Defense (And It Sure Worked on Me!)." A million years of evolution could not have prepared it for that encounter.