Eyes On the Future
I hold my ten-month-old grandson, Carter, in my arms as we stand by the door waving good-bye to his parents for the evening. I’m not strong and find Carter so heavy that I can hardly hold him. Still, I manage to let loose with one hand and wave.
I don’t much like doing it. I dropped my daughter when she was just a little older than Carter. She hit her head, and I can still hear that terrible sound.
But I wave happily anyway to ease Carter’s concerns about seeing his parents leave him behind. My husband, John, and I take Carter upstairs to the playroom, and all the negativity disappears.
As soon as I put Carter on the floor, he crawls enthusiastically from one toy to another, only pausing for a moment now and then to look behind to see if I’m following. Otherwise, Carter never misses a beat. He goes full steam ahead.
We first play with the caterpillar that says the ABCs. Next, we grind the handle on the toy that makes the Weebles climb up the conveyor belt and slide down the chute. I watch Carter’s brown eyes as he figures out how to make the toy work.
We read for a while. I reach for books with pictures of animals, but Carter’s interest lies in human faces. He focuses on the eyes in the pictures and then lightly rubs them with his index finger. He rocks back and forth to get me to turn the page so he can see some more.
Soon, he plays with the toy that uses air to pop the balls out of the top. Next, he pulls himself up on a precariously unstable little toy chair.
Whatever Carter does, he doesn’t worry. He doesn’t look back. To him everything’s geared toward the future, toward learning about the world and adjusting while at full stride.
I notice this because I have a really bad habit of going through life with my eyes on the rear-view mirror. I often obsess over the past and examine how I could have done something better. Written more insightfully. Taught my students more effectively. Connected more thoughtfully with a friend. Been a more considerate mother.
It doesn’t get me much but worry and hurt. It doesn’t help me react better in the future. It doesn’t help me learn. Only looking ahead can do that.
When I look into Carter’s eyes as we play, I see the future. I see the good and bad things that can happen, but at least I can see them.
