My metaphorical morning

Sometimes cliches become cliches for a reason.

This morning I was grumpy. I've had a sinus infection for three weeks and my head is still clogged. Just as Eli and I were about to leave for school, Phil texted me in a panic and asked me to find something he thought he had left in a pocket in his jeans. Eli has been making me chase him down and tackle him in order to get his shoes and jacket on, so just getting out the door is an ordeal, and then he refuses to wear his hat and mittens and when I say, "But you're going to be cold," he responds, "I wanna be cold!" which is so irritating. Eli, it's not like you're a kid in Africa who's never gotten to experience the chill in the air, put your dang hat on.

And then Eli paused in the lobby to appreciate our new Christmas tree (Phil swears that when Eli saw it for the first time he exclaimed, "It's wonderful we have a tree!" which I just can't even because it makes him sound like he was written into the script of a Kirk Cameron Christmas movie), which I wouldn't normally mind except (a) we were already running late, (b) its lights change colors so theoretically a 2-year-old could be mesmerized by it all morning and (c) I'm a Grinch.

Anyway, we finally depart and Eli is walking, which he usually only does for a block or so before giving up and clambering into his stroller. But today it's finally sunny out again and Eli is following his shadow down the block. "I'm being tall!" he exults as he watches his legs stretch out on the sidewalk. "Mommy, you see your shadow?" he asks, slightly worried, as if he's concerned that I'll miss out on the shadow-walking experience.

After crossing the street, we hit a snag: It's shady here, and our shadows have disappeared. "Where my shadow go?!" Eli exclaims, outraged, and I think fast: "Your shadow went to school!" I answer. "It will meet us there!" So Eli takes off walking at a good clip: "I'm walking on the line," he informs me importantly as he follows the crack in the sidewalk, and then, "Bricks!" as he steps in and out of the tree bed.

A block or so later, he announces, "I hold your hand," and I am legitimately honored, as we are not normally a PDA mother/son duo. So on we go, holding hands, and he grins the sweetest grin up at me, as if to say, I know I'm giving you a little thrill. Then he says, "Lights!" and I think he's referring to the traffic lights, so I'm all, "Yeah, lights" and then he says insistently, "Lights! They're beautiful!" (hello, Kirk Cameron) and I realize he's gesturing to a small-scale display of Christmas lights in the bushes that I hadn't even noticed.

And then I experience this out-of-body rush of emotion about how seeing the world through the eyes of my 2-year-old has helped me appreciate the small beautiful things in life and how I am so lucky to have the best kid in the world. And that's how my ordinary grumpy morning became one giant cliche.