Knowing And Not Yet Knowing

Recently I went to my neighbor’s house to watch their two young kids for an hour in the morning, then get them on the bus for school. These kids have my heart, plus they make up half of Steph’s Covid Driveway Art Class roster, so you could say we’ve become a little pod of mates.

When I walked through their front door it dawned on me I’d just stepped back in time to the mother in me who gets kids off to school in the morning. I felt a tinge of rustiness, despite a seasoned expertise. I was a little surprised that I noticed a gap between then and now. I had assumed this part of me was still alive and current. Instead, I realized this part of me was filed away into history. I can’t say I was a huge fan of this insight, but honestly, it’s more par for the course these last years. Such is life, and I do accept this change . . . little by little.

I walked into my neighbor’s kitchen and waited for my two pals to arrive from the upstairs. One is in 4th grade, the other 2nd. The older one finally came into the kitchen and informed me with his usual propriety that he was going to be in the bathroom, and he wanted me to know this in case I couldn’t find him. Inside of me I burst into a giggle, but outside I simply said with the same formality, “Thank you for letting me know. Now I know where to find you. Very good idea.” Then I gave him a professional thumbs up, as if our mission together was running very smoothly and according to plan. Privately I giggled a tiny bit more.

After he left, his sister the 2nd grader arrived, dressed and ready for breakfast. While she was munching along, we chatted at length about dolphins, butterflies, and the pros and cons of the newly updated playground equipment.

Pros of The Updated Playground Equipment:

1. There aren’t any, it turns out.

Cons:

1. There is too much ‘climbing stuff’ now.

2. There is a new bridge that doesn’t shake anymore—a minus.

I told her this meant the architect on the project should be fired! No, no, no. I didn’t say that. Heavens no. Instead, I told her how much I used to love to swing on the swings with my kids. She said the swings were still there and still quite decent, so we moved on from the subject in agreement with a shrug of our shoulders that at least there remained the enjoyable swings.

Most of our time was spent discussing the dolphins. This came by way of a hypothesis currently circulating in the 2nd grade that the school building has a pool on its roof which nobody can see. As far as I know, it does not. However, I took this as an opportunity to consider the related hypothetical scenario that the school’s dolphins were being housed up there. As it happens, the school’s mascot is the dolphin, so this pool might sensibly be the place where those mascots live. The 2nd grader showed her deep consideration for this idea by rubbing her chin like Sherlock Holmes, “I think you might be right.”

Eventually her brother returned from the bathroom, and the three of us settled into a long and incredible story about their monarch butterflies. Each of their classes had raised one from caterpillar to butterfly, like many American elementary students do. They explained how the caterpillar transforms into a chrysalis, hanging upside down and gradually covering itself in the green skin that will house its metamorphosis.

“First the chrysalis is green,” the 4th grader tells me.

“Yeah,” the 2nd grader chimes in, “then it turns all black.”

“Black??” I said, incredulously. I had forgotten about this part of the cycle.

“Yup. Black. Then eventually you can start to see the wings,” the 2nd grader informs.

“Then finally the butterfly comes out of its shell,” the 4th grader says, making his hands flutter together like the two wings of an insect.

Later, I looked up this process online because all our butterfly talk stirred up my curiosity juices for this insect. Hundreds of millions of monarchs migrate from Canada and the northern U.S. down to Mexico at the end of each summer--another flying creature that does the stupefyingly impossible, and annually so.

Still with plenty of time to spare before the bus came, our little group shared such a lovely tale of this educational rite of passage: raising a monarch butterfly. I was enjoying all the expressive descriptions of the butterfly’s transformation when the 4th grader relayed the end of the story.

“Then what happened next was we let our butterfly go and fly away.” His two hands fluttered up and away. “And right then, a sparrow swooped in and ate it!” His hand dove down like a bolt of lightning.

I let out a shriek. “Aaack! Are you kidding?!” But no, he wasn’t. It was a violent and tragic end to the nascent insect’s life. What a deflation of the insect merriment in the kitchen. I was

dumbfounded.

Alas, it’s tough stuff being an insect, but such is life, and we shook our heads in unison over this. I asked if any other butterflies in the school had made it off safely and learned that, yes, all the rest had. So, we ended on a positive note as two-thirds of us heaved backpacks onto our backs and we made our way down to the bus stop.

When the bus eventually rolled up and opened its doors for my buddies, I walked up to say hello to the driver. I felt so ancient saying hi to this man somehow. My kids are in college. I felt I had no business in this domain anymore. But I’m still me, so that means I talk to strangers as a matter of course.

“Hi,” I said, giving a little friendly wave. “I’m just babysitting today. Just thought I’d say hi. My kids are in college, but I used to make friends with the bus drivers when my boys took the bus long ago.”

“I know,” the old, white-haired driver replied. “You gave me a mug one time.” I about fell to the ground. This man was that bus driver?

“Oh my gosh--it’s you?! I can’t see your face with the mask.” To which he quickly pulled the mask down and up so I could see his face. I couldn’t believe it.

“You know, that mug broke,” he said, “but my daughter bought me a replacement because I liked it so much.” I could see happy crinkles in his eyes. This was so unexpected that my mind was doing a somersault. It was like the past grabbing the present, and saying You're still part of this domain.

Years and years ago I’d given this man a coffee mug that said ‘You can take the man out of Jersey, but you can’t take Jersey out of the man’--just to do a random act of kindness, but also because we learned we were both from New Jersey.

“I cannot begin to tell you how much this made my day. My year!” I told him. Behind the bus was now a line of very patient cars. The bus stop sits at the edge of a two-lane road, but folks are always good about waiting a few extra seconds for the bus to do its thing. Still, we had to hurry it up. With a bus driver you have little speed-visits which accumulate over time. I think it's like this with a lot of peripheral folks in our lives. The positive interactions do add up to make a difference.

We waved to each other--two smiling faces, lots of kids chattering in the back, the sun enlightening the place, graciousness filling in the lines of the morning. It was a spectacular morning—I could hardly express, explain, or begin to show my gratitude for it.

The bus drove off as I waved it on. I picked up a stick from the shared driveway and threw it into the woods, trying to spruce up the area a bit. A tear rolled down my cheek. I couldn’t believe I saw my sons’ bus driver after all these years. I couldn’t believe my little neighbor pals were growing up so fast, flying off like butterflies into the years so quickly. I know their parents have no idea about this. They can say they do, and they do in part, but not as they will later, when the chrysalises are so long gone and turned into a small bag of memories rather than the 24/7 they can only see now.

I wish I could tell every young parent what I know--except that I do. I give the same cliched advice every older parent gave me. Enjoy it now. It flies by much too fast. It’s a handed-down wisdom. My neighbors tell the younger parents with babies, as I tell my neighbors, as folks older than me advise to savor each minute. It’s the cycle of knowing and not yet knowing.

As with everything, this is life.