Recently, my son turned two. And though he adores Curious George, and craves Thomas the Tank Engine, ultimately he is obsessed with Buzz Lightyear.
For his birthday our family journeyed to one version of toddler mecca—The Disney Store—and indulged him with a foot-tall action doll.
From the get-go, this was a tender treat of vicariously experiencing his wonder. At first he stared at the action doll in reverential awe. Then he grasped the box as if it were a life preserver. No, we told the cashier, there was no need for a bag.
As we pushed him in the stroller to the car, he alternately clutched and gazed at Buzz until being seated in his car seat he urgently grunted to “ohfen” the box. Then came his nirvana experience—pushing buttons, opening helmets, hearing Buzz speak. Even discovering wings that opened with a touch and real karate chop action.
Afterward, we celebrated at a sports play area. My toddler showed surprising and mature restraint as he let Buzz be for a while (resting in hyperspace). But eventually the pull was too strong and he spent the rest of the time bringing Buzz along, going down slides and helping him fly through the air (because, of course, Buzz’s wings are made of a terrillium alloy, and yes, he can fly.)
As I watched my son literally filled with wonder at the use of this one toy, I was reminded how poignant and important it is to have those childhood, and even adult, moments. To allow yourself the wonder at the time and in the moment. To not let practicality always get in the way. In two years, maybe even six months, what will Buzz mean to him? But this moment, this pulse in his life, to receive something that in his toddler way means so much to him and that brings him obvious satisfaction—no…complete wonder—that is truly a one-time gift.
As we recognize those, what I call, Red Ryder beebee gun moments (with the compass on the stock and this thing that tells time) we take an emotional snapshot of our lives. Who doesn’t remember a yearned-for toy or bike, something we just knew we had to have and that the mere thought, or hope, of owning made us giddy with delight?
And yet, how quickly that kind of wonder fades as we progress through jaded adulthood. And how hard it is to reclaim and rejoice in the wonder of our own day and age.
But that very quality is so critical. To feel the “wonder” of hearing the morning chickadees. Or see a pink setting sun backlighting cotton candy clouds over snowy mountain peaks. Or feel the softness of your child’s skin and sweet smell of their freshly-shampooed hair after a bath.
Or, to be more real-time, taste the succulent velvet meltedness of Ritter chocolate with crunchy hazelnuts. Receive a useful kitchen tool. Or find the phone cord just when you need it.
Wonder indeed.
So many moments and so much wonder, if we will see it. Like the thoughts of Emily from the book, Our Town…
Back to Buzz. By the end of the birthday evening, all were sufficiently tired. My toddler son protectively cuddled Buzz on the way home, providing me with this perfect picture. When I lay down with him for bedtime, the last thing he did was look meaningfully at me then pull Buzz next to him as he pushed one final button. We closed our eyes to the comforting sounds of Buzz Lightyear assuring us that he alone had the information on Emperor Zurg’s only weakness.
A Red Ryder BeeBee moment if there ever was one.
Best,
Connie
