Waffle Guy and I lagged behind the pack on our hike to the top of Multnomah Falls, Oregon, absorbed in the photographic possibilities that a few great lenses and phenomenal scenery had to offer, but the Littlest Waffler was waiting for us when we reached the bridge over the lower falls.
She trembled. Her weeping was silent, the tears leaving disorderly little trails on her cheeks.
"I wanted to cross it, Mama," she said. Her gaze was fixed on her dusty shoes. "I am so scared of heights. I couldn't."
"You don't have to cross that bridge," I told her. "But take a minute before you decide to go back down. Do you think you'll be really proud of yourself if you make it across?"
I picked her up and buried my face in her neck, the same spot I'd nuzzled when she was a newborn. Her arms reached easily around my shoulders now. She shook, but she held tight.
"I can feel your heart beating," I whispered. "Can you feel mine?"
"Mmmm-hmmm," she whimpered.
"That's the feeling of my heart taking all of the fear from your heart. Pay attention to that feeling."
We stood silently at the side of the trail for a long, long time. And then, "I'm ready, Mama."
I carried the Littlest Waffler out onto the bridge. She leaned in close to my ear and whispered, "I have to walk across myself." Her hand held mine tightly, but each step was her own.
Later, at the top of the Upper Falls, she would perch on a rock at the river's edge and beam with pride.
A time will come when she realizes that her mother is just a regular old person. But on that day, I was relieved to discover that I still have super powers. I scooped all of her fear out of my heart, held it in my hand, and blew it into the rapids below.
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