This morning, one of Luca’s beloved bird figurines had an accident.
Unsure of exactly what happened, my wife and I threw ourselves into triage mode when he ran to us panic-stricken over a very small broken plastic beak. The tortured expression of complete agony that filled his face was unbearable.
At first, I attempted to use clear tape, the smallest piece needed, telling him it was a bandaid, but it only made him cry harder for his friend.
Steph then ran and grabbed the quick drying plastic glue, and clamped the two very small pieces together in the hopes it would dry quickly while I worked to distract Luca. I took him around the house quietly singing him songs, working to calm him down, reassuring him his friend would be ok.
Alas, the glue did not work, and our poor boy exhausted himself, distraught that he had failed one of his birds, and that we, his parents, could not fix him. We hid the broken bird, and took him to the living room with his favorite candy, putting on his favorite movie, and held him until he forgot about it. Forgot about it for now, that is, as his memory is beyond compare. He will remember it, at which point, we’ll have to navigate that reality.
We’ve been in this situation once before. While on vacation in Provincetown this summer, we had been on our way back on a walk into town, and he was playing with one of his Superwing toys. As he let it fly through the air while he sat on my shoulders, a bounce in my step made him lose his grip. Destiny had other plans as that little friend dropped to it’s demise, and right down a drain.
Only two blocks from the house we were staying, I held him tightly as he thrashed in my arms, running back to the house to try to find a distraction to help calm him down. Incredibly upset, he yanked at my hair, scratched at my face, and did everything he could to escape my grip and run back to save his toy.
When we made it into the house, where Steph had been getting some work done while the baby slept, we quickly explained the situation. While she tried to comfort him, I went to the toy room where the rest of the Superwings toys were, took out the duplicate of Dizzy, and tried to hand it to him, showing him there was another one - so not to worry!
My wife, unlike myself, is much faster on her feet with this kind of thing. She shook her head at me, to which I hid the duplicate. She got down on his level, took his hands into hers, and locked eye contact with the sad face who’s tears were streaming faster than ever before. She said to him, holding his hands tight, “Is Dizzy in the drain?”, to which he nodded his head up and down. With great certainty, she then promised him, “I’ll go get Dizzy”.
She gave Luca to me, while sneaking the extra Dizzy from my hands, and rushed out the door. Following her lead, we guided Luca to the large bay window, so he could watch his Momma run toward where he had lost his friend, and disappear behind a hedge. He began to panic again, when he couldn’t see her, crying and thrashing, until after a few minutes that I’m sure felt like a lifetime to him, she reappeared holding the exact same friend he had lost down the drain. She held him tall in the air, her arm outstretched so he could see it, beaming with pride to show him that all was alright.
As soon as she entered the house, he grasped the airplane, calmed his breathing, and brought it back to where the rest of his collection remained, so he could line them up, and bring order back to the chaotic being he was living as for the last exhausting adventure.
Not going to lie… after we knew he was settled, I definitely looked at my wife and sarcastically said, “Feel like the hero?” to which she did her sassy shrug and strutted to meet him in the living room to sit by her son, basking in the glory of fixing a situation I couldn’t.
The thing about this need for lines that I’ve learned from both of these experiences, is that it’s not about the line itself. There is LOVE in the lines that Luca, and children like Luca, create. There is time and attention to the way they each create their lines. There is tender care taken for each individual toy placed in the line. Luca will often study each toy chosen in his line to fully understand it - almost as if to see it not only for what it is, but for what it could be, as part of this greater picture he’s about to create.
What may seem silly to some, about the need to line everything up, to our boy, is respect for his things, and the beauty he sees in the collection of them as a whole. The angst and torture he feels when one is lost or damaged is heart breaking. It is not just a toy, but HIS toy, and the way he feels responsibility for it is beyond admirable.
My hope is the next time you see the lines… this perspective helps you to see the love in them, the way Luca reminds us each day, the every thing, no matter how small or insignificant to someone else, could mean the world to someone you care about.
