A Season of Tiny Shoes

Because I am apparently now at the age where body parts mysteriously revolt, I found myself trying to figure out the cause.

For weeks now, my right knee has been protesting. 

Not in a dramatic, “Someone should probably take me to the emergency room” kind of way.

More in a persistent, annoying, can’t-find-a-comfortable-position-at-night kind of way.

Driving hurts.

Walking up and down stairs hurts.

Sleeping hurts.

At first, I blamed age. Or dehydration. Or the fact that I had stopped jumping on my rebounder. 

Then it dawned on me.

Maybe I have injured myself from holding the baby.

The realization felt sad.

Because if that is the case—and I’m sure it is—I probably need to stop picking her up quite so much as I do. 

And I love holding her.

Especially when she lifts her little arms toward me with complete confidence that I’ll swing her up into the air and and rest her on my hip.

Recently, I watched the updated version of The Four Seasons.

The show follows three middle-aged couples who have been friends since college, each moving through their own strange season of life.

One woman had been divorced — not by choice — and was miserable. Then a baby came into her life.

Not her baby. 

The baby became… her thing.

Her comfort.

Her purpose.

One of her several weird little defining seasons.

Watching it, I found myself doing that thing where you stop seeing the character and start seeing yourself.

Wait. Is that me?

Am I baby crazy?

Because lately, a teething toddler has become a pretty central figure in my life.

Not my child, to be clear.

Though you wouldn’t know it by the amount I talk about her.

And photos of her on my phone. 

Yes, she is my screen saver—dang it. 

The way she swings her right arm when she walks, as though she has somewhere important to be.

The way she settles between my sternum and shoulder when she’s tired.

The way she scrunches her nose when she’s babbling about something only she understands.

The frustration grumpiness followed immediately by wholehearted laughter.

Her tiny shoes by the door.

At one point, I confessed my concern to her mother.

“I think I might be a little fixated.”

She laughed and laughed.

Because honestly? We both know—

It’s mostly true.

In a good way.

Still, I could identify with the weirdo woman in the show.

Maybe every season of life brings something like that.

A thing we unexpectedly orbit.

A thing that steadies or unsteadies us for a while.

Sometimes it’s grief.

Sometimes it’s work.

Or something we’re anxious about.

A hobby.

Sometimes, apparently, it’s a child who may or may not be responsible for your knee pain.

Not forever.

Just long enough.

Until a season of tiny shoes becomes a season of big girl shoes. 

For now...

—Tiny pink rain boots and big first-time puddles