Plot Twists

Some time ago, I wrote a blog (March 25, 2007... or thereabouts) about how I felt like a child in one of the craziest times of my life. I was a confused toddler, yet somehow God tolerated my selfishness and wailing to bless me regardless of my unwillingness. I was upset because I was losing normal. I wanted the status quo, the life I had always known, whereas God was slowly but swiftly pushing me out of the predictable. And I wasn't happy about it.

Over Christmas break, a friend of mine had accidentally double booked herself as a babysitter for two families at the same time. Even though as a full time nanny in the summer I have an aversion to acknowledging the existence of all human beings 12 and under during the other 9 months of the year, I agreed to help her out. I headed over to a family of two little girls and a set of parents racing to get to a wedding on time. With a flurry of instructions, I was left alone to take care of the dependents.

We had a pretty good time, and everything went as usual. Dinner, however, was a challenge. The youngest was less than a year old and did not, under and circumstances or powers of persuasion, desire to eat the orange mush I was assigned to feed her. After about an hour of trying and one very desperate phone call to the friend who had placed me in the predicament in the first place, I gave up, hoping somehow the child had as many orange blobs inside her as on the outside of her. (And of me.)

After getting back home from school this May, I was called back on duty (pun? yes.) to the same family for a day. The girls and I had a great time again: piggy back rides, blanket fights, hundreds of swing set pushes, and a whole lot of Disney/Pixar movies. It came time for lunch, and I was delightfully suprised. The baby sat in her high chair and ate her unattractive "garden vegetable" green purée with little fuss. Sure, she got some around her mouth. Which got on her hands. Which got in her hair. Which somehow got on my leg. But all in all, it was like feeding a different baby.

I sat in my big person chair next to her in wonder as I realized I was looking at myself. We had both grown up since Christmas. Sure, the change wasn't monumental. She wasn't sitting at a fancy dinner, deftly going through salad forks and soup spoons. And I'm still not perfect, still not doing everything right, remembering all my responsibilities or forgetting my default setting of stubborn. But as I looked at this little 13 month year old, I realized how far I've come. I'm back home now. I can see the change in myself, and I like it.

I've been through a lot since visiting that house at Christmastime. I was texting a different guy then. I was thinking about different commitments, dreaming different dreams. But here I am, in a new, everchanging situation, looking around and realizing I'm happy. I'm getting somewhere. I'm maybe even doing a few things right. And I realized I can never go back to the place from which I've come. Progress can't be repeated like a bar of music or revistited like a familiar coffee place. It's perpetual. To go back would be to forfeit the growth.

I've always hated roller coasters. The awful feeling of being propelled in unpredictable directions at an unstoppable speed. But now I'm starting to wonder... perhaps the thrill truly is worth the ride.