Life and little things

I realized again this morning how my life is composed of a thousand little things. I don't save lives as a medical doctor, nor do I engage in million-dollar business deals. I'm not a mover or shaker in international politics and I'll never be on the cover of a supermarket tabloid. (Thank Heaven especially for that last one.)

No, my world is much smaller. I find joy and satisfaction in Rachel shuffling out to the kitchen, pants around her ankles, trailing four feet of toilet paper, a slightly manic grin on her face. As I wash dishes, I relish the early autumn sunshine. I watch my children out the window and realize the younger two must be being pushed on the swings by their big sister. I feel Louis kicking and look forward to meeting him face to face. I fold laundry and smell wafts of "line dry" as I pull items from the basket. I anticipate my husband's return from work and plan dinnertime accordingly.

Are there Big Things I touch? I suppose. My son is precipitously close to reading, which could be classified as such. But what impact, if any, will one four-year-old's learning to read have on the wider world? Just because it brings tears of joy and pride to my eyes doesn't mean it matters to anyone else. The coming birth probably falls into the category of Big Things. But what is the birth of another child to anyone beyond our family? Even my obstetrician has delivered hundreds already.

I think of the words repetition and rhythm. One connotes boredom, the other security. One is redundant, the other flowing. Today is a day I find solace in the predictability of my life, the confidence that my children are growing up healthy and well-nourished inside and out, the absence of the Joneses and having to keep up with them.

I like my little things. My children's laughter, my husband's kiss, the breeze in the trees, the feel of the sunshine. My life is made of such things. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.