It's the little things...

The other day I forwarded an article by Anna Quindlen to all my friends with children. It was her unequivocally joyful essay on having raised her children, not perfectly, not without incident—sometimes painful or embarrassing—but successfully nonetheless; raised them to adulthood and citizenship and life on their own. Without exception, my friends who replied said it made them cry. Some even admitted they blubbered. But why does the thought of a job well done make us cry? Is it the memory of good times? Is it because we worry that the best is now behind us, that the future can’t possibly hold the fierce joy we once experienced? Or is it that we remember only the one regret? One friend told me she appreciated the sentiment and was grateful to have grandchildren to give her a second chance.

I admit the article affected me the same as everyone else. I needed tissues to read to the end. The article resonated especially because I, too, have three children who repeatedly make me proud and amazed, angered and chagrined. Each day brings something new, and I learned long ago I should try to cherish the little things.

One April 1st, Steve and I got up to find our underwear drawers had been switched. All my panties and tanks were in Steve’s drawer, all his boxers and briefs were in mine. Maddy peeked deviously from around the corner of our door, “April Fools!” she shouted gleefully. Funny, this was three years ago and we still haven’t changed it back.

The other day my fifteen year old son let me give him a hug. Not the stiff kind you get with the “Oh, mom, c’mon” drawn out along with it. But the warm kind, firm and confident, the kind a mother holds onto just a little too long.

Sometimes it’s just dinner time that makes my day. It’s not what we’re eating, but that we’re all at the table—talking together, sharing, laughing, hollering at each other.

Other times it’s the things that seem little to everyone else, but to me they are huge. I am struck by my eldest’s inability to stay in touch from his college dorm clear across the country. At my latest book club retreat, I jokingly said, “Andrew should call home more often….than never!” and Lisa was hesitant to say she hears from her daughter nearly every day. They all agreed, “That’s boys. They won’t call home, they won’t send letters, but they’ll arrive home for Christmas with a suitcase full of dirty laundry!” But that’s not Andrew, I say to myself, though I’m sure he has no idea what I do with his unresponsive silence. Is he OK? Is he really too busy? Is he overwhelmed, overworked, or just frustrated?

My better half says it’s alright that he doesn’t call. He doesn’t need to. He is confident in himself and the place he came from and the solidity of his family. We are the wind beneath his wings—he doesn’t look back as he soars over new sights and new places, because he doesn’t need to.

Andrew called home last night. It was just a little thing, but it meant a lot to me.