"Mama, where's my lizard," Kalina asks.
"Oh, we left it in the car," I respond. Not thinking much of it.
Kalina begins to cry. Not just a whimper, no, more like a terrible cry as if her entire world was shattered. We walk into her class and she is not happy.
"Hi, Kalina!" says a staffer. But Kalina doesn't respond. She's red in the face and sweaty. She's crying harder.
"Kalina, I can bring the lizard later," I tell her. I'm thinking that later is better than never. Right?
"No, no, no, I need it, Mama. I need it now," she says behind her tears.
I hug her and tell her that her class has already started but she doesn't care. She needs her lizard. That is all she knows. A classmate walks in a few minutes later and tries to get Kalina's attention.
"Kalina, are you okay?" The little girl asks. Her voice is soft and sweet.
Kalina ignores her. There was nothing I could say that would make Kalina feel better. No promises, not even attempting to distract her with a cute newborn nearby. Nothing.
"Do you want me to just take her to the class?" asks a staffer.
"Yes, ok," I say reluctantly. The pit of my stomach is unwell.
* * *
I know that Kalina had created an image in her mind of showing all her classmates and her teachers the lizard SHE made at home. The one SHE painted. The one SHE decorated. The one SHE was proud of.
How could I have not acknowledged how important this was for her? It wasn't JUST a lizard, it was her work and her passion. Her emotions were very real to her and I felt it.
It's so easy to make 'little' of the things that seem small to us adults. They're not so small to the little ones in this big world.
I pushed the glass door open and walked back to my car. I realized what Kalina meant and I did what I felt was right in my heart.
I got her lizard and brought it back to her class. I let her teacher give it to her.
When Kalina got home later, she walked in with a big smile.
"Thank you, mama! Thank you for bringing my lizard!" she said.
We hugged.
