Happy Day.

I might not be able to get it right with my clients on occasion. I might be direct, when others like to take the scenic route to express themselves. I might make people mad now and then. I might like to shed 100 pounds. I might like to color my hair and wear mascara. I might not have everybody like me all the time. I might not be perfect.

There is sweet perfection in sitting under the April sun, light breeze stirring up last year's fallen leaves, neighbor's plastic wrapped giant stuffed animal swaying on the clothes line, hearing my son ask about the sounds he is hearing: birds, truck backing up, more birds, wind in the trees. Perfection in his discovery, in the dirt under his nails, the brown grass on his pants from sitting in the tiny flower garden burying his car in the dry ground. Peanuts and food in general are such a force of worry when it comes to Theo's health, but he can run in the yard, see the new shoots of plants there, he can hear the birds chirping, feel the wind on his head, dig in the dirt, sample a rock, spit it out, tell me what he is doing, and ask about his world. His sister sleeps inside, recharging for an afternoon of chasing her brother.

These two children are so much bigger than my imperfections, so much brighter, so needed for perspective.