I trudge along despondent at the thought that every choice on this path has already been made for me. I need only surrender to the inevitable. And watch the kids’ minds get taken over by precisely the type of activity that irks me the most: the getting of stuff. Whatever happened to the concept of window-shopping? Why can’t we, as a family, take a respite from the daily pressures of consumerism. This is a plausible case of escapism on my part. The kind I wish were contagious, the kind to propel me to something I have not seen before, the kind to instill a lusted-after freedom, even at the most trite of destinations.
Amid the noise, and en mass frivolity, I get exactly what I need. A dose of reality, a prelude to humility. It comes in the shape of a toddler. He half-lies, half-sits with arms hanging peaceably on his sides, ‘most touching the ground beneath, as he slumbers on at the outlines of a wood shop. Soft, amber light envelopes his angelic vestige. It beguiles and beckons me. Then, quickly, I panic. Why is this child sleeping out here, on the floor, exposed, and vulnerable to this place and its forest of moving long-legged characters?
My glance shifts in direction of the shop. Five feet in, a man in his early 40s sits on a stool, surrounded by wood-carved boxes, family name plates, and other tokens from the land of indulgence. He appears haggard. He gazes downwards, engrossed in the carving out of his latest creation. From time to time, he steals somber glances toward the street, the child. This must be the father. But where is the mom?
At the deep end of the shop, a woman speaks seated on yet another stool. Soft-spoken, polite, with impressive command of the English language, she discusses an order with an international bunch of customers. The toddler in the front has her soft curls, high-set cheekbones.
I wonder why they brought him here? And is this decision part of their everyday? I am tempted to judge, to complain, even to tell them what to do.
Then, it occurs to me. In a land, where babysitting duty is taken over exclusively by grandmas, in their absence, parents need make due whichever way they can. And if the family’s livelihood depends on their being out at night in the hustle of a large resort, then this is what they shall do. Toddler in hand, or sleeping in front of shop.
Bred from want and impasse, this decision still comes from a place of love and caring. The details of the scene were a testament to that. Starting from the noise-insulating headphones on the sides of his face, to the positioning of his make-shift bed, away from the bright light, and not quite in the sea of strangers yet, and most importantly, the sometimes scolding, always watchful eyes of his father. As passersby stopped near his most precious display, his vigilance reminded me of a wolf en garde of his pup. A tale replicated in a variety of forms and shapes.
Across distances, across species, across cultures, we each do what we can for our children.