Last night I was privileged to have guests, one of whom is a three-year-old girl.
While seated at the dinner table, my son’s Valentine stash on the counter caught her eye.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to a giant Hershey’s Kiss wrapped in red foil.
“Chocolate,” we told her.
“I want it!” she said.
“No, that’s too much chocolate,” said her mom.
Our little visitor looked at my husband (for support? For overruling authority?). She maintained solemn poise for a few seconds: “Mom says no.”
Then her mouth quivered and her blue eyes went watery.
Poor brave baby, I thought. Trying to accept ‘no’ is so hard.
Her mom got up and reached into the candy basket. “Wait, here’s a little one. You can have this little chocolate, okay?”
The watery eyes brightened: “A tiny one? I can have a tiny one?”
“Sure,” smiled her mom, handing over the regular-sized Kiss.
Small, chubby fingers nimbly divested this Kiss of its pink foil. But the child didn’t eat it. She studied it, then observed: “It’s a baby.”
The rest of us chuckled.
Our small visitor pointed back to the big Kiss and told my son: “I want to see it!”
“Okay,” he obliged. He got up from the table and fetched the giant chocolate.
“Open it! Open it!” demanded the girl, bouncing up and down in her chair.
Her mother looked hesitant as my son unwrapped it: “Just look—you’re not going to eat it, okay?”
As soon as the foil fell away, our little visitor’s face glowed. “It’s the mama!” She held the little Kiss up to the big Kiss: “Here’s your baby.” Wiggling the little Kiss, she said: “Hi, Mama! I missed you.”
As the rest of us dissolved in laughter, a grin spread across the child’s winsome face. She promptly ate the “baby” Kiss and went back to eating her dinner while my own thoughts enveloped me, momentarily drowning out the grown-up conversation.
The beauty, the lightning-quickness of a very small child’s mind, stirring, brimming, spilling over into a narrative with which she identifies, a defining of her world—a child, in fact, who hasn’t been verbal for very long. Easy to dismiss as a simple spur-of-the-moment burst of imagination, but in reality, it’s so much more. This is understanding at its finest, coming naturally through play, through story.
Oh, to bottle it . . . no. Never that. Oh, to open it, let it breathe, let it steep, becoming ever more potent each day, invincible against time and factors that will systematically dilute and evaporate it. Imagination, play, story, the core of who we are from our very beginning . . . the Mama Kiss.
—How we miss you.