Moments

Iyov stands on a chair, face dirty from playing outside, looking at a smooth rock in his hand.
"Mom who made this?" he asks.
"Jesus," I reply.
"I love Jesus. Can I hug him?"
I consider my response carefully. "Well, when you die, you can see him and hug him."
"Where does Jesus live?"
"Near a star called Kolob. Far away."
Iyov doesn't even pause to examine this fact. He replies, "Well can you put me in the car and take me there so I can hug him?"
A little sadness over the predicament tugs at my heart, but mostly I love immersing myself in the simplicity of a child's mind.
"Oh, I'm sorry sweetie. My car doesn't go into space."

***

Beya randomly lays on the kitchen floor while I feed Keshet oatmeal. She looks up to the ceiling and says, "I love you to...to...to...to...out to space mom!" She lifts her arm and points upward, "Space is that way," she explains.

***

Novan's taken an interest in nutrition. Not eating it, mind you. He just wants to know about it.
"Why are carrots healthy mom?"
"Are hotdogs healthy?"
"Are chips healthy?"
"Is peanut butter and jelly healthy?"
"Are apples healthy?"
"Are chips healthy?"
"Is bread healthy?"

Because of endless questions like these, he now considers himself an expert on healthy foods.
"Cake isn't healthy Beya."
"Macaroni and cheese isn't healthy Iyov."
"You should eat vegetables Amelia. They're healthy."
"But mom, ice cream isn't healthy."

Now if I can just get him to hold as much conviction that he should follow his own advice.

***

I watch Keshet, tottering across the floor, gaining confidence, and she finds a ride-on car pushed just-so under the bench next to the couch. She holds on to the bench and steps up on the car. I simply observe her, curious as to what she will do next. Will she try to lift her leg up the 8 inches or so to climb the bench? Does she know how to step down? She starts talking to herself, shifting from foot to foot, even bouncing a little, leaning on the bench, when all of a sudden, the car shifts from under her feet so that the bulk of her weight rests on her arms. She clings to the bench. I ignore the slight worry I feel and watch her, arms gripping the bench, feet struggling to maintain their grip on the plastic car's seat. What will she do?
Grunting, she holds on to the bench and carefully steps down, foot searching for the floor. I want to clap or cheer for her small accomplishment, but I restrain myself (mostly because when I offer attention, she comes and clings to me and I just like to watch her sometimes).
I'm struck that stepping down to the floor holds no amazement for me, but it's a big deal for her. And she wasn't fearful, even when the 'floor' moved beneath her feet. She simply found a way to cope with it. And then she toddles away.

***

I sit on the couch reading a book propped on my knees while Iyov plays with his cars on the other end of the couch. He ambles over, making car sounds. "Rrrrrrr," he grumbles with the bulldozer. "Shhhhhhh," says the plane. Hardly paying attention, I become aware when I notice he's turned the cavern formed by the apex of my knees into a garage for his vehicles. He parks them, one by one, under my legs, saying nothing and lost in his daydream of cars and trucks, planes and machinery. I'm overcome with contentment. Could a Saturday morning be more perfect than when your 3-year old turns you into a garage? I think not.

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