And it hits me then: my children are ready because they believe they’re ready

Photo: Russy Tendler

Recently the baby has taken to packing a little bag, slinging it over her shoulder, and heading toward the door to the driveway.

“Ready,” she calls over her shoulder.

We laugh at her pretentiousness and wonder how she got big so quickly.

“Ready,” she calls again, and she picks up her little bear to bring along on her imagined journey.

We laugh again, and this time I grab my camera, forever eager to capture these little memories that speak of the innocence childhood holds.

“Ready, ready,” she’s repeating, and her words accompany her steps, her pajamas rolled high on one leg and her sagging diaper the last hint of the nap from which she’s only just awoken.

I need to grab her then, before she does actually head further down our driveway and into the danger of the busy street that lies at the foot of it. Of course, she isn’t happy to be grabbed, and her “ready” quickly turns to loud and angry wails, as she kicks and wriggles her way back up the driveway in my arms.

I think of her readiness, packed in her little bag, complete with paint markers and any other forgotten toys she’s found strewn around the playroom, and I marvel at her contentment and her faith in herself and in the world. I want to know what the secret is so that I can keep it intact. I want to find it so I can safeguard it for her, and for myself, too.