Vitamin Close

My children own a quick-setup school bus. You know, the nylon kind, lassoed together with mysterious metal-or-plastic loops that act as a framework once the structure has been released. It' sa two-room bus, with holes for windows, two doors (just like the real thing!) and an open-topped roof.

Today, my oldest son remembered that said bus belonged to this family, happily retrieved it from the dark corner where it had lain, neglected, for weeks, and hastily assembled it for his adoring audience of six. It became an instant hit, and before you could say "Wheelsonthebus," six miniature schoolchildren (the seventh is too young to walk) had crammed their little bodies inside the yellow delight and were parading quite smoothly around our our home.

Even up and down a few stairs.

Even turning sharp corners.

They were happy - gleeful even - the bliss of the moment civering any grievances they may have been harboring. The whole procedure reminded me strangely of a Chinese dragon filled with pudgy white Chinamen, and I coudln't help but laugh. Kids ... and their penchant for closeness ... are simply remarkable.

That laughter served me well later, as I sat buried in a mound of sweating children, holding the book I'll Love You Forever in front of me like a trophy, and attempting to read while simulaneously feeling my hair burst into flames from my skyrocketing body temperature. Closeness, shloseness! That same need to share body space, body smells, body actions ("'Scuse me ... scuse me ... 'scuse me again!" said the girl seated squarely on my right thigh) ... that need can lead to not only physical, but emotional discomfort as well. Of course little children will fight like there's no tomorrow. In their world, there's not. Today's all they've got, and they'd better get all the loving, playing, arguing, and hugging out of their systems while there's still time!

And isn't that a better way, after all? As adults, we stand in grocery store lines with our arms crossed, daring anyone to penetrate our invisible boundary. We build homes with thick walls, then build fences outside of those, then install security cameras and post signs warning solicitors to stay scarce. We hoard our impulses to argue, to make up, to love freely, to hold tight, and we dole out those actions with such a tight-fisted grip that usually, every expression of them feels painful.

But at the end of the day (could it be our last?), who is it that sleeps the most soundly? Who wakes up eager to face a new day, when a new day is beautifully granted? Who doesn't even notice the discomfort of sweaty legs sticking together as they snuggle up on the couch, doesn't bother with germophobia when sharing a cookie, and forgets what they were arguing about the moment the fight is resolved? Those who know how to live closely, that's who.

I love my children. I love the opportunity to teach them. But truthfully, as so many parents have said before me, they teach me more than I know ... and now I think I'll go give them a warm, sweaty hug just to thank them. Care to join me?