"Tousebobubba"

When my niece Anika turned 2 last August, I gave her a picture book about the circus. The book contained paper wheels that turned, making feet and heads of clowns, trapeze artists, and all manner of animals interchangeable. Anika, who takes delight in almost everything around her, giggled endlessly at the funny creatures she created as she turned the wheels.

When, a few weeks later, I read in the newspaper that the circus was coming to town in October, I knew I wanted to take her. Only the best seats in the house would do. I got tickets weeks in advance and enjoyed anticipating our evening together under the Big Top.

When the big night arrived, Anika jabbered all the way to the park about what we were going to see--horses, lions, tigers, elephants, and something sounding like "touse" that I eventually figured out meant clowns. I thoroughly enjoyed her excitement about it all.

We got to the huge striped tent set up in a local park about half an hour early. People were beginning to line up outside the entrance. It was the first cold night of the fall, and both the temperature and Anika's squirming anticipation made standing in the line an impossibility. We went and sat in the car to keep warm and talked some more about the circus.

When the circus music started up and the crowd finally began to move in to the tent, we joined the back of the line. It was moving entirely too slowly for Anika. With arms swinging and her face set toward the tent, she marched past all the people in front of us, her aunt in tow. After a while I gathered her up in my arms and carried her back to our place in line. This game went on until we finally reached the entrance.

The circus owners, apparently concerned about the coldness of the night, had turned the heat in the tent up high. Blasts of hot air poured out of huge vents, causing several people around us to complain of feeling light-headed and uncomfortable. Anika and I, prepared for a cold evening, shed a couple of layers of coats and sweaters.

The oppressive heat was momentarily forgotten when the house lights went low, a spotlight came on, and a "unicorn"--a beautiful white horse with a horn strapped under its mane--came galloping into the ring. It was soon joined by other horses, which made several circles before running out. The place went wild with cheers.

I held Anika perched in my left arm up above the heads of the people in front of us. Her eyes were wide with amazement as they followed the horses. She waved her hand and said, "Hi, horses."

Then the clowns appeared. She laughed and called, "Hi, touse" to them. They did somersaults and then took a huge circular piece of string and dipped it in soapy water. Gigantic bubbles floated through the tent. Anika's eyes followed one as it floated up behind us. Then her eyes went suddenly shut, and her head slumped against my shoulder. Within moments she was asleep.

HER SEEMINGLY BOUNDLESS energy usually keeps her up at least two hours later, but the combination of the waiting, the excitement, the crowd, and the stifling heat apparently did her in. She missed the acrobats. She missed the jugglers and the Chinese plate-twirlers. When the elephants entered the ring, I decided to try to rouse her. She stuck her head up just in time to see an elephant bow to the crowd; she waved her hand and said, "Hi, ephants" and then dropped back to sleep on my shoulder.

I tried to fend off my deep disappointment. We both missed the sea lions, leaving before the last act so I wouldn't have to battle 2,000 people for the exit with a sleeping child. I stepped out into the deserted parking lot with Anika in my arms. The moment we hit the cold air, she sat up and started talking animatedly about the circus, like a windup doll whose spring had wound down suddenly brought back to life.

"Horses go 'round," "Ephants on head," "Tousebobubba," she said over and over as I strapped her in her car seat and we took off for home. "Tousebobubba" had me stumped for a while, and nodding my head and saying "Uh-huh" wasn't good enough for Anika. She repeated it again and again until I finally said, "Clowns blow bubbles?" A big grin spread over her face as she said excitedly, "Yes!"

It was enough. For weeks she talked about the three things she saw at the circus, and to this day she still sometimes squeals "Circus!" when she sees me. She'll never know that she missed the acrobats and the jugglers, the plate-twirlers and the sea lions.

In the end, the evening didn't disappoint me, either. It was a nice circus. And I--who have such high expectations of myself and everything else in the world--learned a lesson from a 2-year-old who was beside herself with delight. Sometimes, far less than having it all is more than enough.

Joyce Hollyday was associate editor of Sojourners when this article appeared.