My wife is a freelance dog walker; one of her clients has her regularly walk their dog twice on weekends, once in the mornings and once in the evenings. Being that neither of us are morning people by any stretch, she’d set an alarm for sometime before the sun, in order to make her appointment. Nothing unusual about this, except that the blaring tone jolted me from a deep and strange dream that I won’t get into because it’s not the point of this story. A heavier sleeper than myself, it took Sarah a bit to finally drag herself from under the warm covers, bundle up, and head out into the cold in order to help an elderly lady care for her elderly pup. I’d already dozed off again by the time she returned, and I only half-awakedly snuggled up to her in fulfillment of my duty to undo the chill she’d invariably gained during her excursion. Soon, before she could fully appreciate her return to slumberland, a small voice drifted to us.
“Is it morning time?” our youngest, Syfina, asked.816Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡS3oqzfqFiY
”Not yet, ‘Fina,” Sarah replied in a vain hope that the kids would drift back off, and we could all sleep in. It almost worked, because easily fifteen minutes went by before the soft voice repeated herself.
”Is it morning time?” Syfina asked again, clearly able to see through the window blinds that the sun was rising. At this point, the question was rhetorical. It’s actually an interesting thought that someone too young to understand a concept like “rhetorical” can nonetheless execute it perfectly.
This time, Sarah replied that yes, it is morning time, and asked if the kiddo speaking wanted down from her bunk bed. The drowsy toddler confirmed this, and soon mother was being led by daughter into the kitchen for early Saturday morning snacks.
As I lay in bed enjoying the sounds of adorable exchange between over-tired Sarah and still-half-asleep Syfina, I heard the elder sister, Keeli, also get out of bed and join them, asking for confirmation that she was taking the proper steps to turn on the Xbox to play Sims4. Sarah returned shortly after and commented that she disn’t think she was going to get to go back to sleep. Cold all over again, she reached for her non-electric heated blanket — me — and we listened to the sisterly conversation drifting to us from down the hall, quietly commenting to each other how cute and sweet they were being.
Not even five minutes later, demands for Mom’s attention once again met our ears. “Mommy! I’m done with my chips!”
Which her older sister corrected, “Those are not chips! Those are pretzels!” Between chuckles, my wife and I exchanged comments that we had, air-quotes, “no” idea where Keeli got her penchant for technicalities. Of course, we were both referring to me and my habit that I’ve had to temper over the years for the sake of tact. When Syfina reiterated her statement (more a request in statement form), Sarah got up to take away the “chips” and replaced them with actual chips when Syf asked for them.
Sarah had barely dragged herself back under the covers yet again when the munching toddler announced she was done with her actual chips. A lack of interjection from Keeli proved they actually were chips this time, which reignited conversation about which of our traits our kids had, for better or worse, inherited from us. As she was getting up yet again, she asked if I wanted coffee, to which I replied that I’d make my own, thanked her for the offer, and reversed it back on her: what would she like?
Now that Dad was taking care of them, Syfina asked for her bowl of pretzels back — which I obliged after she added the requisite “please” — and Keeli showed off her Sims family that she’d made the night before. I set up Sarah’s kerig with a caramel cappuccino cup, whilst going through the lengthier process of producing French-pressed coffee for myself. While the coffee machine percolated and the press steeped coffee grounds in hot water, I stared out the window at the sparrows and finches visiting our bird feeder.
This, finally, brings me to the point of this anecdotal tale: small voices, children’s conversations, the warmth of a partner and soulmate, a sunrise, hot coffee made just-so, fleeting moments, tiny flitting creatures. Life has so many little things that are too simple, too pure, too perfect to be improved upon by society. As I sit here sipping my French-pressed coffee (with egg nog for creamer, I might add), I can’t help but feel awed at the simple beauty of Life.
It is all too easy to bypass the wonder all around us by focusing on to-do lists, tasks, needs, worries, sorrows, or irritations. Life never ceases to be wonderful — we simply cease appreciating the little things that surround us. Even though I was frequently interrupted in writing all of this by voices young and not-so-young (I won’t call my wife “old” for quite some time yet), it wasn’t a bother. It was instead another injection of small delights into my life, if only I would choose to appreciate them.
If only I’ll allow myself to appreciate: The Little Things...
As a side note, ”Noutsy,” is the name my soon-to-be three year old gave to one of her unicorn plushies this morning. Children’s imaginations are so amazing, unbridled, and wonderful; I think it’s a name all too fitting for adaptation into my book.
ns 18.68.41.179da2
