Lessons From a Bounce House

Last weekend, our church had an indoor winter carnival, which included two gargantuan bounce houses.  Bounce houses used to be nothing more than single-room replications of castles or ships.  Now they are monstrosities complete with ladders, slides, and obstacle courses.  Oh, and bigger kids racing and pushing each other to see who can land upright after attempting triple toe lutzes at the top of the slides.

It's hard to say who was more hesitant: Oliver, who was nervous just to stand sit just inside the entrance of the bounce house, or his parents, envisioning a broken neck caused by aggressive grade-schoolers pushing past his little frame.  After much convincing, he sat just on the inside of the doorway.  Then he actually started smiling, and after about ten minutes, he was standing for short periods of time.  He attempted jumping, and found that falling was equally as fun.  Then he headed for the ladder, which leads to a steep slide.  Once a child is on the ladder, you can't see him anymore.  This is where our blood pressure rises.  We see Oliver's little feet disappear, followed by big kids scrambling up the ladder, no doubt pushing past our little guy.  And after what seems like a half hour, we see Oliver at the top of the slide, and exhale. 

"Good job," I said to Michael.

He knew I wasn't misdirecting my compliment.  "You too," he said and sighed deeply. 

This week, I return to work.  Charlie is no longer my full-time job.  I've been through this before, and I find myself going through a grieving period again.  I will loose significant time with Charlie.  He will be spending most of his waking hours with someone else.  He will no doubt achieve milestones when I'm not around to see them for the first time.  I say goodbye to my late-morning naps with him, and will no longer have as much time to just gaze at him.  He will seem to grow exponentially from when I drop him off at daycare to when I get home to distractedly make dinner.  I am sad.

And so I draw my sappy conclusion that the giant inflatable bounce house is serving as one giant inflated metaphor for me this week: letting go.  I'll watch those little feet disappear for a little while.  And after what will be a very, very long day, I'll watch him come back to me; I will take a deep breath, and do it all over again.