I will never forget the moment true magic graced my home. Not the whimsical kind conjured by Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or that quirky uncle who can detach his thumb. This magic is extraordinary; it deepens over time rather than fading away.
It was a winter day in New York City, just before Christmas, and the festive spirit was absent. My son, then just three years old, sat at the window, gazing out on an overcast day. The forecast predicted rain, and with unusually warm weather, snow seemed impossible.
We lived on a busy avenue, notorious for its chaotic traffic. In those earlier days, we often played a game where I would ask him to identify the colors of cars and trucks, count the vehicles at the stoplight, and giggle at the drivers caught in rush hour. But today, he showed no interest in playing. Instead, he stared up at the sky, waiting.
“What are you looking for, buddy?” I asked.
“I’m looking out da window!” he replied, a bit of drool dangling from his lip.
“I see that, but what are you waiting for? A plane?” I inquired, glancing up as well, curious about his perspective.
“I’m waiting for sthnow!” he said, his lisp adorably pronounced.
He looked like a cherubic little yellow rabbit in his footie pajamas, with rosy cheeks and wide brown eyes. He perched on a dining room chair, gazing expectantly at the iron-grey sky, as if he expected gumdrops and Skittles to descend at any moment.
In that moment, I knew that the weather forecast was correct—no snow was on the horizon. However, as a mother, I felt a pang of sadness; we never want our children to face disappointment, especially with Christmas approaching. My son refused to leave the window until snow graced the ground.
“I don’t think it’s going to snow today, sweetie,” I said.
Of course, explaining El Niño to a three-year-old wouldn’t help. So, like any reasonable parent, I made a promise. “If I promise it will snow soon, will you come with me to the living room?”
“You promisth to make it sthnow, Mom?” he asked.
“Yes, I promise, if you promise to join me in the living room.”
“Okay! Do it now!” he insisted, a typical demand from a toddler.
I reached into my pocket but found nothing. So, I cupped my hands, pretending to conjure something magical, rubbed them together, kissed them, and blew gently toward the window.
“What wasth that! What wasth that!” he exclaimed, bouncing with excitement.
“That, dear Sir Cheeks, was Mommy Magic! And with that magic, it will snow soon,” I said, adding a hint of mystery.
We moved away from the window, and I settled in to watch my evening show. But ten minutes later, he was back at the window, jumping and yelling with glee.
“It’s sthnowing! It’s STHNOWING! IIITTTTT’SS STHNNNOOOOWWWIIINNGGGG!!!”
Part of me thought he must have had too much sugar, but when I looked outside, sure enough… it was snowing.
“Mommy Magic worked!!” he shouted.
We both watched in awe as snowflakes descended, draping the grey city in white. For a brief moment, the bustling avenue hushed, the way only snow can quiet a city.
From that day forward, whether he got a scrape from racing around the dining room or attempted daring stunts off the dining chairs, I simply needed to invoke Mommy Magic, and the tears would vanish. Thankfully, he never asked me to create snow again or make rain disappear. That one instance was enough for him to believe in magic—if only he held onto it.
Tonight, as I tucked my twelve-year-old son in after a tough basketball game, he came home with a nasty bruise on his knee. He asked me to rub some Mommy Magic on it so he could play well tomorrow. I didn’t realize he still believed in that. I humored him and did it anyway. We shared a laugh, and I knew that even though the bruise looked painful, I’d do anything to help him feel better.
His belief in Mommy Magic means something profound: even if I doubt myself, he still believes in me.
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In summary, the magic of parenthood allows us to create unforgettable moments, even in the face of reality. Whether it’s a promise of snow or a touch of comfort for a bruise, the belief in magic can bridge the gap between childhood wonder and the challenges of growing up.