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The Reason My Heart Beats

It’s the small things. 

And it always has been.

Like my son who wandered into our room at three a.m., flicked on our light to take a pee and then flushed Niagra Falls down the pipes.  Then, with even less warning, smacked the light off and tiptoed past our bed.  No sense waking anybody up.  Heh.  Only his new pjs glowed radically in the dark.  And as he moved, so did thirty-some little dogs on his body.  I laughed up a lung right into my pillow.

Then God knows we love the library.  Possibly too much.  We certainly do our best to support them through, uh, book fines.  Only how we can have a book for more than three weeks is completely baffling.  Or was–until this morning.  By which time I read off the overdue list to my daughter who then took the stairs two at a time, tore the menangerie of sheets, pillows and library books off her bed and found all five we’d ‘lost.’  Mercy.  

I suggested we stick to sleeping  with just the books we own.  And she thought maybe she could do that.  Which strangely felt like playing tic-tac toe and nobody winning.  Or losing.  I could live with it.

Then we’d hardly left the house when I grievously noticed per the rear view mirror I had a booger to tend to.  By which time my daughter wanted to know if I was ‘digging for gold,’ and my son said that it was okay if I was because I could just wipe it on my pants.  I thanked them both for understanding.

At the library, my son made a valentine for grandpa, then changed his mind and said it was for grandma.  Then grandpa.  Then grandma because he wanted to go to her house.  Nevermind that grandpa lives there, too.

At home, instead of putting on warmer clothes, my son stripped to his underwear and hugged the cat like a rug.  By which time he complained how cold he was when the cat thought twice about his situation and took off.


That my son still wants to be held close and my daughter tickled ’til she cries just makes me realize…I’d be a fool to trade the small things.

They are the reason my heart beats.


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