Today

Gabriel is already talking about the days when it will again be warm enough to blow up the orange kiddie pool. This isn't simply because he's an avid lover of summer-- at the end of a day on the beach, he would similarly recall snow-laden yards and all the winter fun that he looked forward to-- but because he's impatient for what's next, ever sure that the upcoming season is better than whatever he's got right now.

I'm the same way, really. And not just with weather and seasons. With all of life.

I look ahead, counting the days until such-and-such fun thing will happen. I anticipate certain events and hope for certain outcomes as though my happiness depends only on those things.

Foolish, really.

Today is another normal workday around here (except that Daniel intentionally left his laptop behind when he walked out the door this morning, which is fun for me). I've got my short list of chores that seem dull and repetitious. I mean, I just gave the children a bath and already I've got to give them another one. The laundry just was caught up, and now I've several loads to wash and dry and fold and put away again.

It's too easy to already look ahead to tomorrow, though I've barely scratched the surface of today.

I don't want to be impatient any longer. I don't want to keep looking to upcoming days and events and happenings as though they will somehow make my life special. I want to grasp this moment, consider it and treasure it and live it with all my heart.