Wild Things

Watching a preview for “Where the Wild Things Are” tonight (how is it that I somehow get something stuck in my eye every time that particular preview comes on?), I was reminded of the first time I read the book to my nephew. It was Christmas and he and my sister were staying at my mom’s house. He was asking for someone to read it to him. I’m guessing that this had been a common request, because I was quickly volunteered.

We went upstairs to look for my mom’s copy and D commenced skipping around and sing-songing, “Where Max? Where Max?” Max being, of course, the star of “Where the Wild Things Are,” king of the Wild Things and chief instigator of the wild rumpus.

It made perfect sense to me that the book should be given a name and a personality. For so many of us that grew up being read to from it by our parents and, later, reading it ourselves as we resolutely sounded out the words, Where the Wild Things Are was more than just a book. It was a part of our childhood.

I’m told that I heard it read to me so many times, eventually I could “read” it on my own… Reciting it from memory as I turned to the appropriate pages. Although, to this day I still think that the wild rumpus begins instead of starts. That line in the movie totally throws me, even though it’s perfectly correct.

And now here I am, grownup (or at least pretending to be) and reading the story to a little boy who I hope will someday remember the way that he laughs when I roar a terrible roar and gnash my terrible teeth for him.

D and I eventually found the book and we sat down to read it. He put his head on my shoulder. I put my arm around him. And then, unexpectedly, he threw his arms around me, hugged me with all of his toddler strength and kissed me on the cheek.

There is something primal about the love that we feel for children. It’s what keeps them safe as collicky babies and surly teenagers. It’s basic biology, but it’s so much more than that. It’s something I feel from the tips of my toes, the bottom of my heart, my inner core. There is something equally powerful about the love of a small child. My nephew has always submitted patiently to the hugs and kisses of his aunties. As a baby, he slept peacefully on my chest on more than one occasion. But this was my first experience with his unprompted affection. My first encounter of him as a little person with a mind of his own.

And it ranks up there as one of the happiest moments of my life.

When I think about my niece or nephew on the way, I sometimes wonder if, like the Grinch, my heart will grow three sizes to acommodate all of the new love that I’ll have for this whole new family member. It’s hard to fathom that kind of love, but I know that it will happen. I’d never have guessed four years ago the depths to which I love my nephew. It would have been like describing a sunset to a blind person. And now loving my nephew is as natural as breathing

As my nephew hugged me, I breathed in deeply, smelling the top of his head, committing as much of that moment as I could to memory. And then, I hugged him back, I leaned over him and I whispered, “I love you.”