One of the most delightful things about being the mother of a four-year-old is the opportunity to see the world through his eyes.

The other day, Sean sat on a bar stool at the breakfast bar while I worked in the kitchen.  Seemingly out of the blue, he offered this observation:

“Mommy, young skin is smooth and bright,” he said lightly rubbing his forearm. “But old skin is dark and bumpy and… fragile.”

He looked up at me, into my face, as if to verify that he had been heard and understood.

All I could do was look at him and sigh.  I don’t think I’ve ever heard skin described so eloquently.

“Indeed Sean, that is true,” I told him looking down at my own arm which is not smooth and bright but not yet dark and bumpy.

I spent the rest of the day thinking of how beautiful skin is in all seasons of life, whether it is smooth and bright or… fragile.

“Mom, I need a red cape,” Sean said to me this afternoon as I was standing at the kitchen sink trying to get dinner ready. “I’m going to be Superman!”

“Well, does it have to be red?” I asked. I had some red fabric in my fabric stash upstairs, but I didn’t want to stop what I was doing and dig it out. “You’ve got that swatch of material with the hearts on it in your toybox. Can’t that be a cape?”

He scowled at me.

“Mo-om!” he gunted at me in disgust.  “Superman doesn’t have hearts on his cape! His cape is red!”

“Oh,” I said.

“Do you really think it’s the cape that makes Superman super?” I asked, stalling for time, hoping he’d reconsider the fabric conveniently located in the toy box.

He fell silent and looked down at the floor.

When he looked up again, he whispered, “No. It’s his heart.”

Wow, I thought. That’s good. Because I was going to say kryptonite.

And then I stopped what I was doing, went upstairs and dug out the red fabric for Superman’s cape.

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Every afternoon, at precisely the same time, a rainbow appears on the door to my laundry room for just a few fleeting minutes.

Sean was the first one to notice it.  We stood and admired the rainbow as it dipped and danced its way across the door with some invisible partner.  But as quickly as it appeared it began to fade.   Within a few seconds it had dissolved completely and was gone.

The next afternoon, the rainbow arrived again just as quickly and as quietly as it had the day before.  We played in it, dipping and waving our hands in the shimmering waterfall of color.  But before I could get the camera, it had slipped away again.

The next day, we were expecting it and quickly traced its route back through the breakfast room into the living room where the sunlight was slipping through the pine trees in just the right way, through the windows and past a crack in the shades in just the right way and then through a prism of glass on the coffee table. In just the right way. And all of that because the sun was positioned over the earth in just the right way. 

It seems to me that that is the way it is with remarkable and beautiful things in life — rainbows, flowers, children — the rare and impossible come together in just the right way at just the right time, golden for just a bright and shining moment, and then gone.

In a few months, the earth will tilt imperceptibly, but in just the right way so that the leaves will begin to turn brown and flutter to the ground and the sliver of sun that peeks through my living room windows and past a crack in the shades will look elsewhere, through different windows.  And this season of afternoon rainbows will be over.

And another remarkable and beautiful season of life will be on its way.

Is it not true that you can drive through nearly any neighborhood in the country and spot one of these in someone’s front yard?

This is ours.  It’s a vintage model.  We call it a Magoo Car.

Sean’s Godmother Gigi bought it at a garage sale for her kids.  Her kids are grown now and have children of their own.  Even Gigi’s grandchildren have outgrown it, so a few years ago, when we were at her house in East Texas, Sean fell in love with it and Gigi let us “borrow” it.

Like all kids, Sean loves that little car.  And I love that Sean loves that little car. I have loved watching him play with that little car, putting gas in the little car, washing the little car with the garden hose, turning it upside down and working on the engine of that little car.

But now I’m ready for the Magoo car to bring joy to another family. I’m tired of looking at the Magoo car and want to reclaim the space that it occupies on my patio — especially now that Sean has outgrown it.  These days, he can barely wedge his skinny daddy long legs into the drivers seat, yet he can’t bear the thought of parting with it.

Anytime I mention that it might be time to return the Magoo car to Gigi, this suggestion is met with a powerful argument:  No.

Several weeks ago, we returned from vacation around midnight and found the Magoo car sitting at the entrance to the neighborhood, about two blocks from our house.  Under the shallow gray circle of light from the streetlamp, it looked like a sad old dog, waiting for its owner to return.  No telling how long the little car had been parked on the side of the road, suffering the sun and rain and curious stares from all the neighbors.

The last I had seen the car, it was parked behind the house near the garage.  Had someone taken it out for a joy ride and then abandoned it?  Or had the wind driven it down the driveway and pushed it along the street?  Or having noticed that we were leaving, maybe it tried to follow us, finally giving up exhausted after two blocks.  Or maybe — maybe it was searching for Gigi, trying to make its way back to East Texas.  I don’t know, but isn’t it fun to anthropomorphize? 

When we saw it, we wondered how long it had been sitting at the entrance of the neighborhood or why no one had claimed it.  But then again, who would want a 30-year-old Magoo car with two broken wheels and no gas cap?  Then I remembered who:  The long-legged little boy sleeping in the backseat who is in love with that old sun-faded high-miler jalopy. That’s who.

So after a long day of driving, we pulled in the driveway, gingerly pulled the little boy from his car seat and tucked him in his bed bothering only to take off his shoes.

And then AD walked back down the street and brought the little car home and parked it on my patio.

The next morning, when I looked out my back windows and saw that Magoo car occupying space on my patio, I realized that I didn’t really mind.  I didn’t really mind at all.

* * * * *

The people at Graco like me!

Today was one of those rare days in life where everything was just right.

The sky was clear, the air was clear and most importantly, my calendar was clear.

For the first time in several months, I didn’t have to be anywhere or prepare for anything or look into pleading eyes and say “Just a minute, just one more minute, let me finish this one thing…”

Every day is its own unique and holy creation and this day seems to have been created just for me.  I could do whatever I wanted to do and what I wanted to do was hang out with the little boy with pleading eyes.

We spent the afternoon puttering around in the backyard.  While I pulled weeds and cleaned out flower beds, he occupied himself with a big plastic tub filled with water from the hose.  Today the big plastic tub was a boiling cauldron and he was making soup.  Periodically, I stopped pulling weeds to have a taste.  But for the most part, we were involved in parallel play. He made soup, I pulled weeds.

From across the lawn and under the shade of my visor, I stole glances at him.  He was engaged in an animated conversation with an imaginary soup patron.  Just then, a butterfly floated by and whispered in my ear to inhale deeply and remember this moment – grass and earth, water and boy, a river of sky that sails quietly by on the currents of time never to return again.

All was well with the world today. This moment, this is how it should always be.

I inhaled deep and long, painted a picture of this day in my mind, and then exhaled slowly.  I felt as though a warm blanket fresh from the dryer had settled upon my heart.

Linus is wrong. Happiness is not a warm blanket. Contentment is.

One of my many downfalls as a mother is that it is terribly hard for me to resist buying toys for Sean no good reason.

If I were to be introspective about this weakness of mine, it’s probably because I didn’t have much growing up and I’m feeding my inner-poor child.  And although I believe there is tremendous character-building value in having less rather than more, being able to buy unexpected no-good-reason gifts for my child gives me great joy.  It delights me.  And I suppose that could be bad, but dang, it feels good.  If Sean were an ungrateful sort, it would stop.  But so far, that has not been the case.  He is extremely appreciative and that is the sweet cherry atop the cake of indulgence.

Therefore, anytime I’m out shopping I cruise through the toy aisles looking to see what’s new and/or marked down.  It’s a sickness and I cannot stop myself.

Last month when I was in the TJMaxx toy aisle, I noticed a Melissa & Doug’s boxed set of musical instruments.  It had 20 different pieces including a triangle!  As I stood in the toy aisle salivating over the 20 tiny instruments under the taut cellophane, I thought back to Mrs. Kelly’s kindergarten class of 1965.  On several occasions, she gave each of the children a musical instrument, which we played as we marched around the room.  I always wanted the triangle, but I never seemed to get it, no matter how high I raised my hand.  Consequently, I have spent the last 43 years dreaming of playing the triangle. Even given that compelling reason and TJ’s max to the minimum prices, Melissa and Doug wanted more for this box of musical goodness than I was willing to pay, so I put it back.

But then last week I was in TJMaxx, trolling the toy aisle – again — and the little box of musical instruments was on sale for $20!  What could I do? It was like God was saying “I really want you to have this.”  And who am I not to do God’s will?  So I bought it.

Later that evening, when I presented it to Sean, he squealed with delight while flapping his arms and hopping on one foot like some sort of psychotic tropical bird.  “I love it!” he said breathlessly, “I’ve wanted this since I was little!”

He ripped away the cellophane and then I spent the next 35 minutes working feverishly to free each of the 20 pieces from twist tie shackles while he stood beside me hopping from foot to foot, panting “Hurry Mom! Hurry!” 

He gleefully tried out each instrument as it was freed and when he got to the triangle, he marched around the room clanging it with great vigor and joy.  My heart overflowed to see him with that triangle.  At that moment, all my triangle dreams were fulfilled in him.  I told him the story of how when I was in kindergarten, I really wanted to play the triangle but never got the turn.

He stopped and cocked his head, slightly furrowing his brow with concern. Then he handed me the triangle.

“Here Mom,” he said. “Since you never got to have the triangle I want you to have it.”

I just looked at him standing there offering me his triangle.

I laughed and sighed all at once.  It was just so funny and sincere and compassionate and selfless and beyond what any four-year-old should think to do. All at the same time.  I thought about how in just four years he has managed to dissolve 48 years of hurts and disappointments. And then I sighed again.

I closed my eyes and shook my head in an effort to send away the salty tears that were gathering behind my eyes.

Then I took the triangle and clanged it with great vigor and joy and joined the parade around the den.

The other night, after the last book had been read and the prayers had been said, I lay in Sean’s teeny tiny bed with him thinking about all the things in my life at which I am failing. So many things need attention and remain undone.  I was anxious for him to fall asleep so I could get up and pretend to attend to some of those things.

In between yawns, he gave expression to stray and disconnected thoughts, but eventually rolled over on his side with his back to me and fell silent.

As I lay there in the half dark, trying not to think of laundry and impatiently waiting for a sign that he was asleep, I looked at the curve of his small delicate spine.  I marveled over what a complex and beautiful thing the spine is and all that it does, things I don’t fully understand.  I traced my finger lightly over each bump.  I prayed that it would continue to grow strong and straight and that it would last him a life time. I prayed that he would be eager to use it to serve others.

Just then he stirred and turned towards me.

Rats! He was almost asleep.

But then, he reached up and molded the side of my face with his hand.  With sleepy eyes, he searched all over my face, as though he had a question.

In a quiet raspy voice, he said, “I like this minute.”

“You like this minute?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said.  “This minute, right now, laying here with you.”

“Oh me too Sean,” I sighed, “I like this minute very much. There’s no place else I’d rather be.”

In that moment, I was reminded I had waited my entire life for just this minute. The laundry and other undone things that would distract me from this minute, they will wait.  But this minute – it will not come again.

And then he rolled over and slipped off to sleep.

Oh Sean.  Indeed, this minute, right here, right now. It’s exactly where I’m supposed to be. Not before. Not beyond.  But right here in this minute.

I watched him sleep for a while longer and then I got up and went to my own bed where I fell asleep counting blessings instead of failings.

Last week, Antique Daddy and Sean and I were in the car and we drove past a house that had burned down.  This concerned Sean.

“I hope our house isn’t on fire when we get home,” he said, worried.

“Well Sean, even if it were, we are all here in the car together and that’s all that really matters.  All that is in the house is just stuff. We don’t really need it.”

I took the opportunity to reinforce one of my favorite New Testament stories.

“You know what Jesus told the apostles when he sent them out to preach the Gospel?  Don’t take anything with you.”

“Not even a flashlight?” he asked.

I laughed at the image of the apostles carrying a flashlight into the darkness.

And then I sighed.

I never know if I am the teacher or the student.

Monday morning we were late for school. As usual. We are late almost every day, but thanks to Daylight Savings Time, we were well beyond our usual brand of late.

I walked Sean into his classroom and his classmates were already sitting on the floor working on some group activity.

Marlee, a tiny piquant blonde, looked up and noticed Sean standing there. Marlee is known for her exuberance, her boundless energy, her unabashed joi de vie.

She leapt to her feet, hurdled several of her classmates OJ style and then wrapped Sean up in a big bear hug, lifting him completely off the ground. Clearly, she was happy to see him. Oh that we might all be more like Marlee – transparent and unapologetic with our affection.

Sean did not return her embrace.  He did his best impression of a totem pole, keeping his arms stiffly down by his sides, neither moving his head or his eyes to the right or to the left. When she set him down he kind of pulled at his collar uncomfortably and stuck out his chin as if he were wearing a necktie that was too tight. 

Sean’s reserve did not deter Marlee. She grabbed him by the hand and pulled him into the hive of activity.

I turned to hang up his coat and his backpack and when I turned back to say goodbye, he was already engaged with his peers.  He felt welcomed and wanted here and had no need of his mother now.  He did not notice when I disappeared around the corner.

Thanks Marlee.  You make the world a better place. Don’t ever change.

Earlier in the winter, Sean and Antique Daddy set about the task of planting a small seedling in our backyard.

When they were finished, they stood back, hand in hand, to admire their work.

Antique Daddy bent down on one knee and pulled Sean to him.

“Sean,” he said, “Some day, a long time from now, when you are an old man, as old as Papa George, I want you to come back here to this very spot. I want you to look at this tree and remember that you and I planted it.”

Sean made that awkward long face that he makes when he’s trying not to cry.  Then he looked up at his daddy with big fat tears threatening to tumble down his face. He shrugged his shoulders and held out his hands with his palms up, the universal gesture of bewilderment.

“Sometimes,” he whispered and then paused thoughtfully.

“Sometimes I want to grow up… and then sometimes… I don’t.” And then he shrugged again.

Oh Sean. That’s exactly how your mommy and daddy feel. Sometimes we want see you grow into a man with a life of your own. And sometimes we want to keep you a little boy forever.