A little fright

The other day, my grandson Noah was a little off his game. Since he grew out of infancy, he has never stopped. He is always talking, always moving, always listening, always looking for something new and fun.

He was a bit under the weather the other day - possibly an allergy - but he normally drives past that, his capacity for fun is so large. But the weather outside wasn't so hot the other day, and for the first time that I saw, he heard thunder, loud, startling claps. The dog jumped across the room after one of them.

Noah was genuinely frightened. We've seen this in a small way with airplanes overhead, even from inside the house. His ears appear to be tuned to the drone above, whereas I don't notice it until he says the word "plane."

As he does, he moves a few inches closer to me, to be reassured. And I do. We talk about airplanes. Later, we watch a wonderful movie about migratory birds, and I ask him if he would like to fly like a bird. I explain that we can't fly like birds, so we have planes to do it for us. I take my best shot.

But the recent thunder really got him frightened. He didn't freak out, but he wanted reassurance that everything was OK. I reclined on the couch, and invited him to come over and lay on me. I would hold him, and all would be OK.

I put my hands on his little back and pressed down just a little. We lay there quietly, and I spoke only to reassure him that there was nothing to worry about; that Amma and Pa would keep him safe.

He appeared to calm down, and I was glad I was able to do something. I recalled the story I heard a while back about the Haggerty Elementary school teacher Mr. TenBroeck, teaching his fifth-graders in the classroom on the horrific day in which 9/11 was unfolding, when the school went on lockdown.

Recall that school had just started for the year; teacher and students were not real familiar with each other.

From a story told by one of his former students, Mr. TenBroeck walked to the door of the classroom, closed it, turned around and said to each of his students: "I will keep you safe."

And he did. He confirmed his students' trust that day, which was all they had at the time.

But Amma, not I, is the masterful one at nurturing and reassurance. Noah asked her to rock him in the chair, something they haven't done in months. That lasted a few minutes, and then he asked to be put in his crib. He was going to take his nap.

Amma did so, closed the door, and Noah slept peacefully for about two hours. When he awoke, he was his old self again: on the move, inquiring, playing, happy. The photo is from those moments, in which does a kind of iron cross gymnastic move using the rocking chair we bought for him for Christmas.

That's my boy. Don't worry, Noah; Amma and Pa will keep you safe.