Another Moira story, because it was sweet and I don’t want to forget it.
Moira attends a baby gym class and has since she was scarcely crawling; there’s some organized song-and-dance but mostly they roam free on the gym equipment.
It should surprise no one that Moira combined today’s activity–jump from one tall foam block to a low one, then do a somersault on the low one–into an aerial front flip that I had to course-correct in midair to keep her from landing on her skull.
Anyway, toward the end of class they get out the soft sensory balls for basic chasing/throwing/catching. They come in different colors and sizes, but there’s only one purple ball in the set of smaller nubbly ones. It is hotly coveted by all the kids, and I see why–in a sea of faded primaries, this particularly rich shade of purple stands out.
One of the little girls we’ve come to know was crying–she had been bumped and fell down, and it triggered a big upset. She got past the point where she could control it; it was just one of those crying spells they lose the ability to manage. Her mom was holding her.
Moira looked at the little girl and her miserable little sobs, and looked around. Her eyes fell on the little purple ball as it bounced out of the scrum. She darted over, picked it up–eyeing the other kids approaching her–and ran over to the sad little girl. Moira pulled on the girl’s shoe and offered up in comfort the finest gift her toddler brain could conceive. The gift was taken, but the girl’s grief was too great–the ball was put down, and they left to calm down outside. Moira shrugged it off, took the purple ball, and toddled over to a hoop and slam-dunked it through the center.
My darling Moira, you have two rare and precious gifts: the compassion to see suffering and want to fix it, and the confidence to shake it off when your plan doesn’t go quite accordingly. You’re not yet two, but you’ve figured out something some people never learn. I see great things in you, my little fireball.