Change

Tonight, among many other things, I am feeling mystified by my children. They seem so other sometimes, so unknowable.

Today, when Annika woke up from her nap, I went into her room, and she was standing up in her crib. Her hair was tousled and damp, her eyes still squinty with sleep. She was smiling and drowsy and just standing there, holding onto the side rail, peering out at me, happy to see me, and not at all distressed. Usually, I just scoop her right out, but today, for some reason, I went to her and just stood there right up against the crib for a minute or two, sort of hugging her, rubbing her small back, stroking her soft hair. She seemed so very small, and somehow unreal, in that how can a living person be that small? And I found myself wondering what she was thinking, how she thinks when she doesn't actually have language yet to categorize her thoughts. It made me happy that I knew she was feeling safe and loved, and that I could recognize that from her face and her eyes and the way she leaned into me, but still, I felt a little shiver of wonder: Who is this person, who will she be?

And then, tonight. The long awaited dog graduation. Lily was beside herself with excitement about the staying up. How long exactly past my bedtime will it be? she kept asking. When it was time to leave, at 8:15, she was already yawning but raring to go. She insisted on putting on Sadie's leash herself and walking her all the way to the facility where the training had happened. As we walked, she asked questions--Will the dogs do tricks? Do they do grooming at this place too? Will the huge dog be there?--and after a while I realized that she had no idea what we were going to do at a "dog graduation;" it was hard to say what her sense of the word "graduation" was, although we had been using it liberally over the past few weeks.

The dog graduation was, as I should have known, anticlimactic. The best moments for Lily were getting some sample dog calling cards and a free pen, and walking around and meeting the other dogs, including a big, goofy, uncoordinated rescue pit bull named Jackson whose owners had taken him to over two years of classes until, tonight, he was finally deemed ready to take his life full circle. Sadie's training had taken five weeks. Lily sat quietly on the folding chair next to mine, occasionally whispering quietly but insistently into my ear: When are the dogs going to do their graduation things?

It was mostly talking and paperwork. There were no tricks, no walks, no tests of the kind we'd described from previous classes. But she was a good sport, and at the end, she was in the group graduation shot, holding Mudge, the paper dog she'd made in school that we are supposed to photograph in different situations. When I told her I was certain Mudge would be the only paper dog to appear in a group therapy dog graduation photograph, she looked thrilled. Exhausted, but thrilled.

On the way home, she was pretty quiet. I could tell she was not just exhausted but also experiencing the inevitable let-down of reality trumping expectation. Are you glad you stayed up for that? I asked, as Ben swung her up on his shoulders. She looked up, pointing at the full moon, so I would notice it, then up the street as he walked toward home. Oh yes, she said. Of course I am, Mama. I've never been to a dog graduation before.

How can babies become people so fast? How can it happen while you're standing right there, watching with all of your might?