The Caterpillars Return

“Children’s stories are not their parents to tell.”

A strong statement. I wrote it down and circled it last week as I sat in one of the lectures at the Festival of Faith and Writing. I looked up from my notes to see other attendees nodding, a few “Mmmm Hmmming” as well.

I didn’t listen to the rest of the lecture.  I was thinking about a Spring afternoon when Harper stepped on a caterpillar accidentally and sent Hadley into a fit. Or the time Harper lost a balloon in Target. I thought about the first time Hadley got stung by a bee.

Each of these incidents I wrote about on my blog. What’s more, I couldn’t wait to sit down and crank those posts out.

This idea about not saying too much, especially in regards to our children, taps me on the shoulder as I type all the time.  It sort of smacked me in the face at Calvin last week.  Have I done Hadley and Harper wrong? Have I defined an experience for them so that they are no longer able to interpret or remember it? In my hope to be a writer, have I used them too much in my practice?

The rest of the day I thought about another direction to take this blog.  Maybe I could go back to literature like I did with “Sit A While,” and only write about the H’s in regards to their reaction to a book.  Perhaps writing about writing should be the way to go.

Then Jesse sent me this:

Hadley had been looking forward to setting up the tent the entire week.

And when I got home from the conference that evening, my mother – in – law showed me the bouquet of wild flowers Harper had given her that afternoon.

I love the game box turned upside down so that the sprinkled grass is scattered around the vase.

Calvin has an overpass now so that students can cross the Beltline without having to play real life Frogger in order to get across campus.  I used it several times walking back and forth from The Prince Center, to the Chapel, or Commons, etc.  On one of my walks, I was behind a grandfather and his granddaughter.  They were holding hands.  With her other hand, the little girl was holding an apple. She was telling her grandpa about her snack: how many bites she’d taken, whether it was crunchy, how she doesn’t love the skin so much. As they got to the middle of the overpass, they stopped and the little girl said, “Grandpa, why’d we stop?”  He pointed to the cars driving underneath us and said, “What’s the most common color of car you see?” She held her apple close, looked at it for a second, then dropped it to her side and leaned towards the glass to find the most common color of car driving by. She wanted to talk more about her apple, but he was showing her something else to be interested in.  I think she decided the apple story could wait.

Watching the two of them reminded me of my girls and their walks with my dad to Rehm Park. He takes them over a bridge that stands above the Eisenhower and I know that on every walk, the three of them stop and see what there is to see.  Growing up, when I stood on that bridge, I looked at the Chicago skyline.  For Hadley, it’s the trains.  And for Harper, it’s blue cars or teeny tiny insects that she has to crouch down to look at.

I think that whatever it is we are all looking at, there will be a different story for each of us to tell.  I think there’s room for all of our stories, even if some of them overlap.

Yesterday, the caterpillars were on the sidewalk.  I pointed them out and the three of us bent low to the ground to stare at them. Harper creeped forward and Hadley sent an arm straight out in front of her to warn Harper.

“Don’t step on him!”

“I won’t, Hadwee,” Harper shoved Hadley’s arm out of her way.

I never bring the story of the caterpillar up unless Hadley talks about it first. I let her tell me she was sad or scared. I let her tell me that she didn’t want Harper walking on the blacktop after she’d stepped on the caterpillar. It’s her story to work out, to return to, to make sense of.

I’m just glad I can be a part of it.