Little Moments

feeding fish

Mr. C has appointed himself the Official Neighborhood Greeter.  This means that he has taken it upon himself to charge out of our home/yard any time he hears a car pull into a neighboring driveway.  Or a car start  in a neighboring driveway.  Or someone quietly tiptoe-ing across a neighboring driveway.  Yes, as soon as he hears (or thinks he hears) any of these sounds, Mr. C charges out of our yard, screaming "Hell-O?!" at the top of his lungs in a desperate attempt to stop the neighbor before they've left the area.

It's either very endearing or very annoying; I can't figure out which.  Of course, I'm not the one being charged at.


Our neighbors are all very good sports about this, and always stop for a minute (or five) to talk to Mr. C and answer his inevitable question, "What are you doing?"  Then Mr. C will tell them a bit about the newest goings-on in his own life.  (A garbled goings-on that generally doesn't make much sense to a neighbor not in the know.  But still.)

Having a sociable child like that reminds me that it's important to be sociable myself.  I really don't know any of our neighbors, so it's nice to at least have my 4-year-old represent our family in a positive (if somewhat intrusive) light.

It's funny that he'll be outgoing in that respect, but shy in so many others.  All the teachers at his preschool, for instance, see only his quiet and reserved side: he's a little less willing to mingle there.  I don't know if it's because he joined the preschool after most of the kids had already formed alliances or if it's because -- as an only child -- he's just more comfortable around adults.

Whatever the reason, although he enjoys preschool, he's definitely not very outgoing there.  When I dropped him off yesterday, for instance, he clung and wanted me to sit with him for a few minutes while the other kids played in the playground.  I complied, then -- when I thought he was set -- I kissed the top of his head and left, surprised he didn't even look my way.  Well, it turns out this wasn't because he was ambivalent, but was because he was distracted; therefore, he hadn't seen me leave; therefore, I was halfway to the parking lot when I heard pounding footsteps and one desperate teacher  asking the others, "Is Mr. C's mom still here?"

Upon turning back, I was met with the out-of-breath teacher, who was carrying my red-faced and tear-stained child, who had "just wanted to give one more kiss".  It took a minute of hugs and kisses (including a last kiss to my palm) before Mr. C was ready to let me go and brave the schoolyard again.  ("So cute!" the teachers crooned.)

But that moment of cuteness was nothing compared to one that happened the week before:

Mr. C and I were in the car, gearing up to run errands.  We were off to my tiny side job of house-cleaning for an incapacitated friend.

(This has become one of our favorite activities: he and the friend hang out on the couch, eating corn dogs and watching SpongeBob together while I clean.  They enjoy each other's company, and I enjoy:
1) being paid to clean
and
2) cleaning a house that still stays clean half-an-hour later!!)

When we were done cleaning, Mr. C and I were going to the airport to pick up our incapacitated friend's best friend, who I'd never met but was assured I'd be able to spot with ease.  I didn't mind doing this at all.  In fact, looking forward to doing it was making me feel so good; a feeling of satisfaction that can only come from doing something selfless and nice for someone else.

So, anyway: Mr. C and I were in the car, on the way to our friend's house, and we were stopped at a traffic light.  I remember that an elderly lady in a clear rain hat was toddling past the car, Adele was crooning on the radio, and that it was lightly raining outside.  I love rain: the smell of it; the way it makes everything look shiny; the way it excuses you from having to go outside and work.  So, sitting at a stoplight in the drizzle, with my little boy in the backseat and Adele in my ear, I was suddenly engulfed in a feeling of complete and absolute comfort.  I've had a few moments like that in my life; they may not last long, but -- still -- they linger.

And then this particular moment of comfort was suddenly magnified as my child unrolled his window, stuck out his arm, and suddenly screamed, "HI!" to the elderly lady in the rain hat.  He began furiously waving his hand back and forth, piping "Hi!" several times as the lady stopped in confusion and apparently tried to figure out if she was supposed to know this child.

Although obviously deciding that she didn't, she still took a step closer to the car and blew several happy kisses to my passionately-waving boy while I laughed from the front seat.  Then she continued on, smiling, our light turned green, and we drove off to our day.

And, in that lingering moment, I just knew that all was right with the world.