Sunshine

There is a lyricism to childhood that we as parents and mentors and employees and mess cleaner-uppers, and spill moppers, and shoe tier's and in and through all those mundane duties of adulthood are often apt to forget. We become masters of ushering in milestones and tucking bed corners and sniffing tops of heads and pulling on our little one's boots, and ignoring the whines. In that rythm of life we sometimes forget that children need to explore the elements of the world but do not need our approval, merely our companionship. They need us to be there with them, also exploring, creating, discovering, not saying with a nod and a placating smile,
"yes, honey. I know."

My little sunshine is four. She is bright and social and healthy and breaks my heart with her sweet yet halting eloquence. And in that she has taught me a crucial lesson: love and childhood are beautiful in a way nothing else it. They can't be misunderstood, there is no wrong way to say "I love you." There is no wrong way to be a child.
If you stand in the sunshine outside and spin in circles with your eyes closed, you will see colors dancing inside your eyelids as you spin, around, and around, and around.
Love is the same way: but it's there whether you spin or not.

I love you, my little sunshine.