Being a Mommy. In 3D.

I recently took my kids to see The Croods in 3D. It was a cute movie. Not the best ever, but pretty good as kid flicks go. We sat through the initial previews and got reacquainted with a technology that still amazes me. I’m only 41, but still. 3D movies were not like this when I was a kid. I’ve racked my brain but I can’t even remember the first 3D movie I went to. All I know is, even though the technology is not new anymore, my kids and I were all guilty of lowering our heads slightly, raising our eyebrows and then repeatedly lifting and lowering our fancy 3D glasses to check if what seemed to be centimeters away from our eyeballs was indeed right there. (It wasn’t.) I knew that. A little voice in my head told me, logically, there’s nothing there, dummy! But something in me just had to check. I suppose I just made the choice to ignore that little voice of logic, of experience, and look again. To be sure.
Both of my kids gasped aloud at whatever had whooshed in front of their faces and, get this, they actually reached their hands out in front of them to touch it, to no avail of course. Eli, who is almost 10, caught himself. Hands outstretched in front of him, fingers tickling the air for the invisible shrapnel that was floating in front of us, he looked over at me. Busted. He laughed at himself unabashedly. I’d bet he almost blushed: He recognized his folly.

“Aw that’s not there - that’s not there - there’s nothing there.” He giggled and I shushed him, laughing too. We both cackled, as quietly as we could. It felt so innocent.
“I know that’s not there, mom,” he said, still laughing.
“I know you do, Eli. It looks so real, doesn’t it?” I was trying not to laugh too much, but you know me. Then he lowered his glasses and checked again, one more time to be sure. “Look at that, mom!”

I don’t know what was better, the flying shrapnel or his response.
I watched Lena after that; She did the same thing. Hands out in front of her, she tried to grab every rock, every flower, every animated letter that came tumbling her way and tried to hold it in her little hands. Being younger, she never checked to see who was watching her.
This is where my mommy-as-voyeur kicks in: the part of being a mother where I’m hoping to sit back and just watch without interrupting them: I want to see the part of their youth that allows them to just do their thing, unchecked. I want to be reminded of it, so I can do it too. That doesn’t last too long, does it? The part of our lives we live in, when we can just jump in puddles or sing or dance or do our karate moves, with no concern about who sees us or hears us? I lost that part of myself a long time ago, I’m sure, although sometimes I can choose to ignore that little voice and do it anyway. What a great gift I can receive, if I can actually do it. That’s the choice.