Happy Freedom

The boys practiced roasting their ideal marshmallows (“Perfectly golden brown!” and “Supah bwack and cwispy!”) as the 80’s playlist shifted to the next song. I half-listened over their excited chatter while my husband sang along, intermittently adding sticks to the fire. “…I need you so, Take! These broken wings!” He glanced over at me. “Maybe not,” he said, skipping ahead to the next selection. The chorus of that Mr. Mister song was just about the last thing we needed. “Too soon,” I agreed, with a half smile and a slow head shake.

Earlier that day Ted, our first butterfly to attempt to emerge from its chrysalis, did not make it. He had formed his chrysalis on the ground of the caterpillar cup. Despite our best efforts to do what was recommended when we transferred the chrysalis to the butterfly habitat, Ted did not successfully emerge. His wings were crumpled and he was unable to walk, nevermind fly. “Well,” said my youngest, a bit of a pragmatist. “I guess he just had to die.” When the boys were smaller and in the “Why? Why? Why? But WHY?” stage we would answer their questions as best as we could. Then when all else failed we would rely on Louis CK to offer our way out. “Because some things are, and some things are not,” became the line that meant, “We have done our very best to provide you with an adequate explanation, and have now reached the end of the line. We simply have nothing more to offer you in response at this time.” 

The little one’s personality is well-suited to accept the concreteness of situations that simply are or are not. But not my big guy. I knew it was coming. Heavy sobs, the kind of crying that comes when the many other things you haven’t wept for catch you by surprise and come cascading out as well. He comes by those big feelings so honestly. Tempering them takes recognition and work along with the permission, space, and time to feel them. We placed Ted gently beneath our blossoming cherry tree and sat in somber silence as the tears fell. Eventually we moved on. Ted has been a topic of conversation at least once a day since then. It is one thing to know the risks of witnessing nature but another to process watching things not go as they should.

Five butterflies emerged the following day. They immediately appeared to be in much better condition than poor Ted, rest his soul. The boys spent the entire day enthralled with their existence. “That one opened its wings!”, “Look at that guy walk at the top!”, “What is all of that red stuff?”, and “Mama! One just flew!”. The benefit had outweighed the heartache. I hoped that it would. 

At some point in my childhood, my mom completed a cross stitch of the quote, “There are two gifts we should give our children. One is roots, the other is wings.” It hung next to the front door in our living room, eventually displaying a crack in the round, wooden frame as a result of falling from its nail one too many times in response to the slamming of the door. I am lucky in that so many of my childhood roots intertwine with those of my husband. I want our children to feel their roots with as much importance. To feel the love and lessons of their childhoods. To remember the gift of time and the quiet pace we had when they were little. How we taught them to look up and around to notice what was happening in the sky, their surroundings, their hearts. Watching their delight in observing our newly emerged butterflies stretch their wings I thought, how fitting that the wings of these butterflies should serve to deepen the roots of my sons. Those big feelings that allow for so much heartache also allow for thoughtfulness, tender care and compassion, and true wonder and appreciation. The hard contrasted with the beauty.

The cast was removed from my youngest son’s arm this morning, for real this time. As expected there is some skin breakdown and muscle atrophy that will improve with time and exercise. An x-ray revealed that the fracture remains visible though is much improved. This sudden freedom from protection in both barrier and position leaves his arm vulnerable while it continues to heal. The arm is at greater risk than just this morning still safely tucked inside the cast. But there is danger in too much safety and the cast cannot stay on forever. His body will continue to heal as he moves and plays and grows new skin. His arm is ready to stretch out wide and strengthen.

We released our butterflies this afternoon. The cat has been intently observing their movement with a flick of his tail – the precursor to a pounce. It was time. The boys hesitated and worried for their safety outdoors, but much like my son’s arm, they cannot stay caged forever. They needed to stretch their wings wide. We unzipped their little mesh habitat at the base of the cherry tree and with some coaxing and cheering watched them fly away. “Happy freedom!” my oldest exclaimed. One of the butterflies stayed close for a few extra minutes to the delight of my youngest, who was insistent on providing his namesake with a cherry blossom. Sure enough, the butterfly obliged and landed on it. Eventually he too was gone.

Happy freedom, butterflies. Thank you for the gift of roots. We hope you enjoy the full use of your wings as you spread them wide and fly.