I was reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman on my lunch hour today, and read, in a few sparse paragraphs, something that made my blood run cold. No, I’m not…
I was reading American Gods by Neil Gaiman on my lunch hour today, and read, in a few sparse paragraphs, something that made my blood run cold. No, I’m not going to quote it, just talk about it.
Trust.
Katherine turns three on Sunday. She’s beginning to figure out more and more about the world, and be able to articulate what she’s figured out, but … she still trusts things. She trusts that the world is pretty safe, that people are good and kind, that her parents can and will protect her. She trusts that reality is here to amuse her, entertain her, make her happy and content and joyful.
If a group of people around her start laughing and applauding, even if she doesn’t understand why, she’ll do the same thing. Her face will light up in a great, big smile, and her hands will slap together, and she’ll even jump around. She sees others being happy, and she gets happiness from that, just in participating in their happiness, even if she doesn’t understand its source. And she sees that they’re happy at her happiness, so it’s all good.
I know that won’t last. The world isn’t there just to amuse and entertain her, to make her happy and content and joyful. Even now, she encounters bits of it that trouble her. She understands “No.” She runs into little kids who won’t just give her the ball because she wants it, or who tell her she can’t do something with them. Lessons, all the time. Sometimes it’s a lesson that I applaud, as it chips away at her naturally self-centered nature. Sometimes it’s a lesson that makes my heart sink, as it chips away at her effortless joy, her trust in others.
She’ll learn about pain. Not the pain that happens when you bump up against a wall, or want something you can’t get. But the pain that happens when someone is mean, thoughtless, cruel, manipulative, uncaring, intentionally hurtful. It happens. It will happen. It even has to happen. But it’s gutwrenching to see, and I know it will hurt her over and over and over again, no matter what I might do or want or accept.
And all I can hope is that enough of that childish wonderment, that joy, that trust that she has with her today, can tide her through those times. All I can hope is that Margie and I can teach her enough about love and caring. That we can teach her how, even if you can’t always trust others, you should always try to be someone who can be trusted yourself. That she won’t respond to the hard knocks, and hard people, of life with anger and hatred and hurtfulness herself. I can only hope that she’ll respond instead by trying to build happiness and contentment and trust around her, toward others. And that she’ll get as much joy from seeing others smile and clap then as she does now, only with an understanding of why.