The Sit - Part 4

And now, I’ve arrived at the point of all this. When I went for that walk on Wednesday, and heard Herb’s voice in my head, wondering when Violet would be ready for The Sit, it left me thinking about what kind of person she’ll become. Up until recently, her personality has been more of a concept than a reality, something for us to project and predict. I often wondered in this blog if she would value the things that my wife and I do, if she would share our interests (at least until she was a teenager and goes insane), but deep down, doesn’t every parent assume that their children will do just that – share their interests, I mean? Doesn’t some part of us expect them to turn into newer versions of us, only better because we’ll help them avoid the things that messed us up? Maybe it’s just me, but regardless, Violet’s personality is now taking shape. She doesn’t like picture books, only books with flaps or shiny/furry things to feel. She likes apples but not bananas. When we went on her hike, I showed her the remains of a Queen Anne’s Lace flower. She has always been fascinated when I’ve shown her plants, but that day, she shoved it aside, more interested in my ring than the flower. “Oh my God,” I thought. “This can’t be! She not interested in wildflowers!” Silly, I know, but I calmed myself down. And then the question of The Sit came into my head, and I’m left wondering if she’ll be the kind of person who can see the value in just sitting somewhere for ten minutes, or twenty minutes, or longer. Will she be someone who can just sit and wait and see what might happen in her own head or in the space around her? I plan on working on it with her. I know it will take some time and that we’ll have to work our way up to ten minutes. We started today. I took her to Tulip Summit, and we sat on the ground in the fallen leaves. She was in the chest carrier, and she leaned back against my chest, looking up, all on her own, for a good thirty seconds, staring into the branches full of sunlit leaves, all yellow and orange. She pointed up to the trees, squinting, and I looked up, too. I don’t know what she was pointing at, maybe nothing, but before I could bring my gaze back down, she was arching her back, straining against the carrier’s straps and pushing against my legs with her feet. She wanted to move on. She had managed a minute. Not quite ten, but in that minute, something happened. Something I think I’ll remember. It’s a good start. Maybe we can add a minute every year.

321 days old