Baby Wisdom

         Recently one Saturday afternoon I witness a now-becoming-familiar scene: Our eighteen month old daughter on the step stool at the kitchen sink, swirling a dishrag around in the suds. I pause and watch her because it's clear she has entered that sacred circle of awareness that is "flow."  She is the dishrag. She is the water.  Her pruney hands plunge deep, bring up a rubber duck, a little cup, a plastic popsicle stick. Again with the dishrag, round and round. She leans her face down closer to the suds until bubbles move in response to her breath, then she begins to blow, carefully sending suds in every direction. She pats the bubble peaks with her open hand and goes back to pushing them around in some kind of sculptor's trance. 

            She is our youngest of three, and hyper-engaged in all sensory play. We've been here before: I'm stocking up on cream of tartar for homemade play dough and our water bill might reflect some sink activity unrelated to actual dishes being washed.  Mealtime has taken a turn toward more intentional performance art and baths are lengthy, sudsy, splashy affairs.

            It's especially meaningful to me right now. This toddler life stands in contrast to the becoming complicated lives of our two older children, ages 17 and 20. The eighteen month old was our mid-life shock surprise.  Finding out you are pregnant at 42 while in the middle of pondering an empty nest is an interesting experience.  Part of accepting celebrating this new life direction has been to look for extraordinary moments connected to this child in our day to day lives, and savor them.  Not surprisingly, this part is easy.  

            So there I am, taking a lesson from the baby in being present and mindful.  I decide this is "extraordinary," and call older children over to  watch her play. I tell them whatever they do to always have something in life that takes them to this place she's visiting.  They roll their eyes.  I tell them to always play--not video games--but really play, even while working. They nod, if not in understanding at least out of respect for my tendency to make a big deal out of everything.  It's okay.   Somewhere in their adolescent brains is a memory of playing in water, swirling a dishrag round and round, and being completely at peace in a world of their own making.  My hope is that these memories provide an anchor for authentic living that won't let them down. What is extraordinary is that their baby sister models this every day and we all get to relearn how to live. How awesome is that? "Watch her play," I tell them one more time and the player finally hears me, looks up from her sudsy world, and breaks into a squinty-eyed, toothy grin.

            "This is the secret," I say, "to being happy forever."