Nothing But The Truth

Life Lessons

Excerpts, which are italicized, are from a 1978 unpublished essay, A Promise To Tell: Nothing But The Truth.

Children are simply their own little wonder. - Unknown

We are taught to let go of things and move on, but I've held on to Brown Bear, Jen The Lion, and their stuffed company - precious keepsakes that for me evoke the confident grace of childhood, a careless disregard that fades with maturity.

They make me think of that day a mother dreams about. The house was obscenely bright, the curtains stretched wide apart. We were moving to the Valley of the Sun's anchor metropolitan city in three months so our current ranch-style, three-bedroom home had been tidied up and put on the market for sale.

The boxwood hedges were trimmed, grass mowed, carpet vacuumed, furniture dusted, and the most-challenging chore of all - toys neatly stashed in the playroom closet. And the days went by. We eagerly waited for realtor John to call. The girls would longingly look at the closet, wanting to do one of their most-favorite things - to take out their entourage of play stuff and build a tent in the family room. Almost two weeks, and John hadn't called. I relented. 

Almost immediately, out came the Holly Hobbie printed sheets, the Alvin the Chipmunk quilt, the Strawberry Shortcake tea set, Goldie, Raggedy Ann, Theodore, and who-knows-what-else. It was a merry sight, with the girls happily chuckling, pulling chairs together to tie the sheet ends to. Inside the tent, it felt as enchanting as the first time we had put it up. The tea was hot and the cupcake was delightful. Toto was scolded, as usual, for messily putting up his paws on the covers.

Then the phone rang. My heart skipped. It was our realtor cheerily announcing that he and a client were on their way to our house. I turned into Super Woman, single-handedly throwing sheets and toys back in the closet. And right in the nick of time, as if from some magical fairy dust, the place was once more immaculate.

Chatty and overly-accommodating, I led the merry procession into the house, with John reciting its virtues, inside and out. Our prospective buyer was clearly pleased. But just as John was to end the tour, Younger Daughter made a face and giggled. 'You haven't seen our toys and tent yet!' I bit my lips, declaring, 'Next time, sweetheart.' That's when Eldest Daughter averred, 'Oh, but they're right here.'

Our visitors obliged, walking with a grin toward the playroom. Younger Daughter continued in a very clear voice, 'In there!' Her big sister helped by pushing the closet door apart, revealing a mishmash of soft and Fisher Price toys intertwined with sheets, and lidless pots and pans. I was horrified and utterly at a loss for words, but the girls looked proud, their ear-to-ear smile completely dazzling. 

One of Toto's eyes had been replaced with a chipped button, and Froggy is worn with drooping shoulders like an over-used dish towel. Looking at these stuffed toys, now threadbare on some parts and floppy, reminds me of that single moment of insight.

I thought that I had schooled the girls all about life, but they in fact were the ones who showed me what life was really all about.