One day this past week, after coming home from a long day at school, I was greeted at the door by a sunny little face with sparkling brown eyes and tiny pink lips that were turned up at the corners to form a beautiful little smile.
It was my landlord’s wee granddaughter, Isabelle, and apparently her family had dropped her off to spend the day with her grandparents. Well, and me, by default.
I had forgotten what it’s like to be a four years old girl, and to have the attention of a college student all to yourself. I’d never quite imagined what it would feel like to BE that college student, either.
We sat beside the kitchen table talking like grownups for a good while. Well, not entirely like grownups. Isabelle expresses her affection through touch, and her cute little sticky hands were always attached to some part of my person as we talked…until finally I began to catch on that what this constant touching was really communicating was, in fact, her need to be touched. So we started an on-going tickle fight that went on sporadically for most of the afternoon.
She was beside herself with delight when I told her that I was going to make tea, and asked her if she wanted to try some.
“Oh!” she gushed, “Ith it like the tea they have at McDonaldth? I jutht LOVE that!” (I love her lisp!)
“It’s a little different,” I said, “because this is hot, and it’s made with a tea bag…so it’s not sweet like that.”
She looked a little dubious at that point, so I told her I’d let her smell it before she tried it.
When I set the cup in front of her a few minutes later, she looked more doubtful still.
“It smellth thpicy,” she said, “and I really don’t like thpicy.”
“Well, I’ll just put a tiny bit into a cup, then, in case you don’t really like it,” I told her.
She stood there watching me with her head cocked to one side quizzically. I was trying not to laugh as I watched her take that first sip.
I really half expected her to spit it back into the cup or something—she’d been so sure that spicy was not her thing. But I think the fact that I was drinking it and apparently enjoying it might have influenced her reaction a little.
Slowly but surely, an awe-filled, rapturous expression spread across her face.
“My goodneth!” she lisped in her little four-year-old voice, “thith ith AMATHING!”
So we sat, and drank tea, and talked about her life. She asked me if I backwash when I drink tea. I told her I didn’t think so…but she thought she should probably look in my teacup to make sure, so I let her.
And then we put her hair in frenchbraids, and she asked if I wanted to play dress-up with her.
“And then after we get all drethed up, we can danthe for Grandpa! And he will pwobably say that we’re beautiful, and that he LOVES it!”
I just smiled, and thought to myself that if I dressed up and danced around in the living room for her grandfather, he would probably just think it was frightening and wonder if I had lost my mind. But I nodded enthusiastically, and told her that she was beautiful all the time, even when she wasn’t in dress-up clothes.
Her comment was striking to me, though: “he will probably say that we’re beautiful…and that he loves it!” I marveled to myself at how early this desire begins in the little feminine heart—the desire to be beautiful, the yearning to be admired, to be cherished, to be loved and treasured…to be thought exquisite, and unique, and desirable.
Oh, how fragile a thing is the heart of a child! How easily these little dreams are crushed.
As I finished plaiting little Isabelle’s hair and sent her off to be admired by her grandparents, I found myself silently resolving to do a better job of protecting the dreams of those I know…whether it’s a four-year-old who dreams of being someone’s princess, or a college student who dreams of becoming a missionary.
Because dreams are one of the things which make an ordinary existence both magical and extraordinary.
