The Small Stuff

Where, oh where do the ideas come from?

Like magic, I was reminded--again. (Sometimes I forget.) The day before, my 5-year-old daughter and I both woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I took her to school, and we were both in a tizzy. It was one of those mornings where you just wish you could hit the rewind button.

The next day, I decided not to repeat past mistakes. I tried to be gentle and patient. Admittedly, getting her out the door was a bit easier. Still, I tried. When I helped her out of her car seat, I smoothed her dress out.

"You look so pretty today, Sophie," I said.

We were standing beside the car. As dirty and grimy as it was on the outside, she saw her reflection.

And then she smiled.

Even though she could barely see her own reflection because of all the dirt, she saw enough of herself to know that she thought she was pretty.

After walking with her, hand-in-hand, past the crossing guard, following the playground fence, around to her class room door, I felt a tremendous amount of love for her.

"Good-bye, Sweet. See you tonight," I said.

"Bye, Daddy."

How do I know my daughter loves me? It wasn't the grin she gave to me after saying her farewells, although that made my heart melt.

I know my daughter loves me because, as she walked into her classroom, she stopped a second time and turned around, in the middle of the crowd which parted like the Red Sea.

"I love you, Daddy," she said with a smile bigger than the first grin.

This was my first idea of the day--my daughter's reflection on a dirty car.