That’s what Katie says every time she leaves me for another room. She’s reassuring me during these days of change and independence-gathering. I think our roles somehow got reversed. She is reassuring me.
“Don’t worry, Mama…I’m being very careful.”
And she kind of looks at me with a serious face and puts her hand out, to symbolically stop the worry. In the name of love.
I get this same gig whether she’s walking into the next room to see where Cinderella is or whether she’s crawling up on the hope chest to get on the bed. There’s no discerning between a true sense of peril and just every day ambling.
And I must admit: I think it maybe works a little. I return the serious face and say, “Okay. Thank you.” And on we go.
Perhaps I’d felt a little better this day in Piedmont if my husband had looked at me before ascending the Bobcat of Doom, hand raised in symbolic worry-stopping, and said, “I’m gonna be careful.”
But no. He just loped into the bucket of the Bobcat and told his buddy: “Get me up as high as you can.”
Wiser words were never spoken.
And then he decided that he needed two hands for the job, so he had his buddy bring over a ladder for him to transition to, so that the aforementioned buddy could then launch HIMself up into the stratosphere with a medal wand of fire that shot sparks. And what a friend he must be…only one of them can wear the helmet to protect their eyes and face from the welding rod. You see who won that Rock, Paper, Scissors….