Let's hunt for insects.

It began as a simple request.  He wanted to "hunt for insects."  He wanted evidence that he matters.

It began when he removed crystals from Celia's chandelier.  While I was busy with his brother he climbed up on the bed to reach the fixture and then buried himself, and his "treasure," under the pillows.  We talked about fragile and electricity and danger and don't do it again, please.  Later he came down the steps wearing a guilty smile, clutching his pockets.  "Mama, you don't say NO to me, please."

It began as a simple request and grew to a silent, frustrated plea.  So we filled our water bottles with ice, grabbed an orange, some granola, sunscreen, a diaper, stashed our stuff -and a napping baby- in the all-terrain stroller.  Under the noon sun, we walked one block over and into the woods.

He does. He matters more than anything else. So I let go of everything except my direct encounter with him, gave him my wholehearted all-here-ness.  I became not involved in bug finding but engrossed in the wonder of him.  He squatted to study a spent seed pod, reached to pull branches down to eye level, rolled rocks and sang with the birds.  He filled both hands with nature but then realized he would like to hold mine.
My grateful concentration kept the miracles from blending in with the nitty–gritty.  Because when he’s plucking flowers for my vases and plunking "presents" in my palms, that's all that matters.  Him.
It began this morning, the same way most days do.  But it ends with me wondering how I'll ever remember how much I love him today.

 JEB