My son got a haircut today. It was an impulse trim, long overdue, on our way out of the shopping mall. He, my daughter and I had ventured out for a soft pretzel lunch–something bland that wouldn’t press the eject button in our fragile, recovering stomachs. None of us could bear another meal at home of Gatorade, crackers and plain noodles. We sat by the potted plants in the middle of the mall and ate in near silence. Tired from even this small outing, we headed down the wide corridor towards the mall exit. Along the way, I glanced over and noticed a hair salon. It was empty except for one stylist who was talking on the phone. I saw an opportunity to address my son’s shaggy mop–an easy moment in what has been nearly a month of continuous illness.

The moment didn’t last. “Up here, Hon,” the stylist said, tapping her hand against a taut green Naugahyde cushion. She’d stacked two boosters in the chair. My son now sat higher than the armrests, where he could topple out onto the ceramic tile floor. “Just chill,” I told myself.

My daughter found a seat in an empty chair. Then the stylist started in with my son. “Look down. Not that much! You’re leaning. This way. Sit still!  Mom, your son’s trying to look at himself in the mirror.” I was standing only three feet away, but I moved in closer, right by his side. He was sitting as still as a four-year old can. He was trying hard. I reached over and caressed his cheek, still soft and round with baby fat. “You’re doing fine, honey,” I whispered, leaning in.  The stylist’s fake black nails curved like inverted snake boats and skirted the well of his eyes as she drew the scissors along his hairline. “Don’t move. These scissors are sharp! You’re squirming. Sit still. Tilt the other way.” I remained right by him, doing a do-si-do with the stylist as she moved from his right side to his left. Wisps of his curls fell around our feet. “I’m not afraid of clippers any more,” he told her, looking up. “Still, now,” she answered back, oblivious to the milestone he was sharing. As soon as she clicked off the clippers, I told him he could hop down. I paid up, and we left.

Ten minutes later we were parked in the cozy bay of a car wash. We oohed and ahhed as sprayers covered our windows with a quiet blanket of foam. Sprinklers surrounded our car on three sides, washing away the film of salt we’d been chaufferring back and forth to the pediatrician’s for weeks. “Wouldn’t it be fun to have one of these in our yard during the summertime?” I asked. A flurry of discussion ensued between my son and daughter in the back seat. For a moment, I drifted away.

Around these children, I thought, is a permeable membrane that separates them from The World. While they are young, I swim around its circumference, guarding their innocence and grace. I screen the caregivers, pre-read the books, check the ingredients on food labels, and spot them on the play structure. Little in the built environment is designed for them. When they joyously romp into an electronics store with their Dad, they are confronted by the machine-gun fire of “Call of Duty” on the screen next to Super Mario. In public bathrooms, they try to wash their hands but the soap and sink are too high to reach without help.

At other times, I try to smooth the sharp edges of things that have already crossed the membrane. At school my daughter watches a film about Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination. On the ride home, I provide some historical context.  I temper the impatient, four-part commands barked by the salon stylist. These things I buff and sand so they won’t puncture the many balloons of joy and security life floats towards us each day.  Imperfectly, I offer a caress here, a coo there. A little off the top of a “Sit still!” so that the laughter of a car wash visit can bubble through and multiply.

“The child passes little by little from the unconscious to the conscious, treading always in the paths of joy and love.” -Maria Montessori

Something in the corner of my bedroom didn’t look right this morning.

It was 7:25 a.m., the point in our weekday routine when I see, despairingly, that my loved ones are still languishing over puzzles in their pjs while the clock hands spin furiously towards our 8:10 departure time. Downstairs in the kitchen,  I’d just pulled scrambled eggs off the front burner of the stove. On the back burner, a pot of boiling water growled for the tortellini I was making for my kids’ lunchboxes.  I plated the eggs, then darted back to my room for a Sudafed. When I looked down to punch the pill through the foil pouch, I noticed something new on the rug. It wasn’t just the desktop copy machine I brought over last night from the office to print some drawings. It was a shiny silver “8” on the rug next to the copier. With my toe, I nudged the twin circles towards the wood floor. My wedding ring and engagement ring separated and rattled against the oak boards.

I quickly pieced it all together. Everything happens fast at our house–events and their reconstruction. My preschool son had wandered into my room while I was downstairs warming his milk. He’d spun my bedside light around. There he found the rings I’d removed at 2 a.m. because of dry winter skin. Maybe he started to bring them to me, or maybe he had other plans. But en route from my nightstand, he spied the copier I thought I’d hidden from view behind an armchair. With its buttons and paper trays, the machine brought him to his knees on the rug. There he set down the rings, one above the other like the 8’s he’s learning to write.

“It’s good to be curious,”  I found myself saying to him this afternoon as we sat on the sofa reading Curious George Flies A Kite.  “Curious means wanting to learn.” He held my wrist as I turned the page. It’s also good to be lucky.