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He comes in so quiet I don't notice him, not until his golden curls are right by my hip. He's wearing his footsie pajamas and he's smiling up at me, eyes intent, focused. He has something important to say and he says it softly, intently, "Mik. Miik. Mik."
"Milk?" I ask, just to make sure, and his smile, brighter than sunrise as he says, "YEAH!"
As I follow him to the refrigerator, I think it shouldn't be so hard, this giving thanks always. It should be as easy as opening my eyes when I have a little boy walking around in blue pajamas, when I have a dolphin sticker on my forehead (a gift from the biggish boy in batman pjs), when the cutest people in the world want hugs every time I sit down....but I'm all or nothing, yes or no. You could give me a hundred compliments and the one negative would be enough to cancel them out. It must be all, or it must be nothing.
So instead of gratitude I practiced grumbles. The week was inconvenient, expensive, frightening, uncomfortable. I wanted one thing and got five others.
I've thought that my critical eye was a gift, an shroud of protection against being fooled, or mocked. A way to see past frivolity.
I'm thinking that maybe my critical eye is blind, and makes me run into walls.
Maybe frivolity is what I am supposed to see and maybe I am supposed to see the kitchen in shambles...because isn't that the way to pancakes?
307. Mondays, new days
308. Pancake requests, the smell of hot butter and hot batter
309. Healthy dogs with pep in their step
310. The ability to pay for vet bills
311. Quinten's team winning yesterday, "THE GREEN TEAM WON! MY TEAM!"
312. Boy races around and around the couch
313. Leftovers
314. Family gathered around, a cozy lap for every little boy
