In this entry I randomly select a song title from my itunes library as a writing prompt.

Song Title: “Live and Die” by the Avett Brothers (from The Carpenter album)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about living every day, staying in the present, making the most of those moments. A friend’s tagline on her email is: “Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” Being someone who likes to have big things to look forward to (don’t most people?), this idea prods me a bit. In rushing to get on to the “big thing”–like the annual beach getaway–I sometimes don’t realize that there is beauty and depth in the little thing. Often these little things have to do with my three little things–my kids.

Besides not having a mountain of patience, I’ve driven enough rings around the Beltway, made enough mac n’ cheese and hot dogs, and presided over enough “word study” sessions to feel like I’ve earned the right to not always enjoy those “little things.” At bedtime, I’m literally willing my kids to sleep, like a marathoner with the finish line in sight, as if that will make any difference in what they actually do. I usually end up surprised and frustrated when they don’t seem to have received my mind-controlling messages and suddenly appear in the kitchen for that life-preserving glass of water that will sit untouched by their bedside all night.

Even now, my 10-year-old daughter, who leaves for camp this weekend, is hanging around as I type outside on the patio. I try not to shoo her away too sharply–she will be gone for two weeks, after all–but my first thought when I see her is “not now.” She comes closer, and I uncharacteristically hold my tongue and wait to see what she does. She has showered and dressed and fastened a fake flower to the side of her wet, blond hair that is pulled back in a ponytail.

“Mom, can I see your phone?” (That’s where all the games are.)

I hand it to her and look back at my screen. She sits down at the table next to me and asks if I’ve seen a sweatshirt that she needs to pack for camp.

“Honey, I’m working on something. I’ll be happy to talk in a bit, and then we can take Cookie for a walk.”

She wanders over to the swing and sits. She’s not excited, not upset, just slouches in the swing with that fuscia flower in her hair, lightly pushing her feet back and forth. I think about what I’m writing and how this beautiful, contented (for the moment!) 10-year-old, excited and scared about her first-ever sleep-away camp, is soon to be a 10-year-old who will have had a two-week experience that I will have had nothing to do with, except for write the occasional letter and send a care package, maybe. She will come back changed, even if ever so slightly.

She ambles back over to the table, grabs my phone and starts to show videos of her and her sister to our scruffy terrier, who lies at her feet.

“Mom, look at Cookie watching!” She is giggling.

And I am watching my daughter. It’s only a little thing, this moment in which a 10-year-old is delighting in showing her dog a video, but it’s one I’m paying attention to.

Think I’ll go walk that dog now.