Parenting is time travel. When you have your first kid, you get flooded with the past. My mom kept bringing me all her favorite outfits of mine when I was a baby/toddler/kid. When we travel to grandparents’ homes all the old toys finally get some more play.
As I time travel with my son into my childhood, I’m repeatedly dumbfounded by a vivid memory of this toy or that book that I haven’t seen or spared a thought on in over 25 years. And yet when I hear the dings of this little music box, or see the way the whiskers of that lion curl in that book, the memory engulfs my senses.
The universe is suddenly simple and beautiful and magical again.
Then I time jump into the future. I realize that every moment I have with my son could have that effect on him when he is grown. It’s incredibly humbling. I can no longer view any minute I spend with him as mundane.
Every little song we sing. Every silly dance. Every accent for the talking animals in “From Head to Toe.” Every tiny thing could become his Rosebud. Every moment is magical. Every moment is sacred.
And then, when I finally return to the present, I put my feet back on the ground and realize that nothing actually has changed. It’s always been that way.
Every moment is magical. Every breath is sacred.
The notion that any moment of life is mundane, average, ho-hum or unimportant is a lie. Thinking that way is sin. God is always singing with me, dancing with me, reading a book, putting me to sleep. I stand on the sloping edge of the present, filled with the meaning of the past, sloping into the purpose of the future.