The Little People

I am fully aware of the effect that things have on my life. I have a lot of stuff, and while I'm not a hoarder, I'll admit that my need to acquire can be a bit daunting at times. As I look at my Christmas list and my perfectly decorated apartment, though, I realize that it's not things that really matter at all. That quilt will look cute on the back of a couch, but it's really meant for blanket forts. The vacuum cleaner doesn't really serve a purpose if it isn't sucking up spilled cheerios or sandbox mud. These are the reasons I collect: I'm preparing my home for memories yet unmade. I'm prepping my life for great adventures and love that has been eternities in the making.

I love the littles. I spend 20 hours per week with children, and while that's nothing compared to full-time motherhood, those 20 hours are some of the best of my entire week. I love catching the rare smile of a boy with autism (yes, the same one who pulled my hair out and ripped my cardigan this morning). I love the magic that arrives the week (or month) before Christmas, in a classroom where 22 first graders can't contain their excitement for the real Santa Claus. It gets me every time, and I'm eager to meet their enthusiasm with a healthy dose of my own belief in Christmas magic. I feed off of their untainted views of life, and I leave the elementary school knowing that anything is possible.

They're the reason I do it. I get up in the morning so ready to face another day of screaming and crying, because in the middle of those difficult moments are the ones that shine like gold. The glances from littles looking for approval and love. The shy grins of people who didn't think they could do it until I told them that I believe. I wouldn't trade these priceless memories for all the things in the world, because without them, none of my stuff would have any meaning at all.