There’s a pot of daffodils on my kitchen table, and Cameron smiles just about every time he looks at it. So do I.
Cameron and I were racing home after daycare under sunny blue skies one day last week. We skipped, we ran, we played tag, and he played at being an airplane. In every other yard cherry trees were in full bloom, filled with fluffs and frills of every shade of pink. Some yards still had crocuses in bloom, others had rhodos. Spring was getting going.
Suddenly, Cameron grabbed my hand and stopped. “Mama! Daffodils! Can I pick some,” he asked? No, I told him, because they’re in people’s gardens. His lower lip slowly stuck out, eyebrows up, in unfeigned sorrow. Yeah, I was surprised. Where did this come from?
“But I wanted to pick some for you, Mama. I know you like daffodils!” Tears were welling up. He’s right, I do like them. I hugged him tightly, and wiped away those tears, coming up with something that sounded pretty corny. “I can see how much you want to pick them for me, love. And that makes me as happy inside as having a bunch of them in my hands would. “
“It’s not the same,” he stated quietly, and we started on our way again.
The next day I had a surprise waiting for him after daycare. On the bench at his cubby I had a small pot of daffodils. Our very own, so he could pick them. The walk home took forever, because he had to keep hugging me.
In the end, he chose to not pick the daffodils, and to let them stay in their pot in the kitchen.
(it’s been a very full week or so since I last posted! Full and fantastic. This is at least a starting place)