The Eyes of a Child

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Twelve seconds.

The battle horn sounds, shrill and cold.

Time stands still.

Nine seconds. Eight seconds.

Adrenalin rushes through veins like waves through the ocean during a hurricane.

Six seconds.

Blood pressure rises. The air shudders in the icy chill of October night.

Three seconds.

Sweat glistens on the skin of the combatants. The battle has been fierce.

The warriors clash.

Two seconds.

Hearts beat faster.

The violent cacophony of the collision shakes the foundations of the arena.

One second.

The prize is at hand. Glory waits just inside the boundary. Immortality.

Touchdown.

Wait, what?

Touchdown! Game over! Victory!

If you are a fan of football like myself, this might sound a little familiar (if not a little enhanced). Games are won and lost, teams overcome and underachieve, and champions become mere mortals eventually. I've spent hundreds of nights watching this particular game of war, but tonight is special.

My little girl Mykayla watches the twenty inch TV as intently as a lion hunting an antelope at a watering hole. Her hair is tousled and eyes are heavy, purple polka-dot pajamas freshly donned. Keisha is already half asleep on the hotel room bed, but Mykayla is forcing her sparkling eyes to stay open. Sometimes, a girl just needs to see how the game ends.

It's moments like these I would give anything to know exactly what she sees with those hazel halos she calls eyes; to know what was running through her brain as the running back forced his way into the endzone.

When the crowd roars, her eyes widen. She claps her little hands as hard and fast as she can as the fans celebrate another victory. She looks to me, making sure I was clapping and cheering too. I smile and quietly cheer so as not to wake her mother. Mykayla looks back to the TV, smiling. What an amazing way to end a magical California night.

Being a parent has provided me so many moments that have added light to a difficult moment in my life. Many come to mind, but one more sticks out. Not too long ago, we had the Blood Moon. I took my daughter outside to see it in the middle of the night (way past her bedtime). Snuggling up against my chest, I wondered if she would even care.

As we stepped into the street where the trees didn't obscure the sky, she wiggled and adjusted so that she could see the night's majestic beauty. She pointed up at the crimson moon and started jabbering. Furrowing her brow, she looked back at me with her sharp little gaze, continuing to tell me a story about the moon and the stars. She chattered in her tiny voice in such a way that I knew I should pay attention to her 'words.' I would pay good money to know what legends she told me.

The point of this entry is not to gush about my daughter. The point is to simply recognize in a public forum that we spend too much time looking at things through educated, assimilated eyes. Seeing the forest for the trees, if you will. We get to see the sun every day and the stars almost every night, but I wonder if we have truly lost the magic of it all. The little girl in my arms wanted me to know something extremely important, but I couldn't tell you what.

I believe my eyes, while seasoned and clear, may be losing focus on what is really important. Football? No. A blood moon? Incredible, but lacking even still. The sense of wonder, the understanding that every day of my life (and my daughter's) is a miracle, may be the most important sense I have. Do I waste the chance to see this world through the eyes of a child?

It's time to awaken. It's time to be reborn. Today. Now. I'll start with new eyes. But this is only the beginning.



Sb.