We used to ride the alligator

We used to ride the alligator at the local library. You would look up at me, with those big, blue eyes and ask me so sweetly, “Daddy, can we ride the alligator?” I could never say no, even when I didn’t need to go up to the next floor. But it made you so very happy. You would ask which button to push to call the alligator to us. And squeal with joy when the bell rang and doors opened. In you would rush if it were empty. If not, you huddled close to me, with those big eyes staring shyly. Again you had to push the button, never quite knowing which to push. Your excitement mounted as the alligator shook and we momentarily grew heavier. Then, then the real magic as the doors slid open and we were somewhere else. Again you rushed through the door, your little body turned to pure excitement by the ride.

I cherished it because I knew it would not last. And, sure enough, when you were still three I asked one day if you wanted to ride the alligator. You looked up at me and said, “Elevator, Daddy. It’s an elevator.”

I felt that mix of pride and pain. The one I feel so often as you continue to grow. The pride of your intelligence and vocabulary. The pain of watching you lose your innocence bit by bit. The pain of watching you leave the protected, enchanted world of childhood. And I try my hardest not to imagine what it will be like as you grow older.

©2008 -Art Belliveau