If at the end of the day you think you've accomplished nothing or think you've affected no one's life in the least, try this: remember the day with a three-year-old child.
"What we do a day, Daddy?"
He lies on his back in his crib. Yes, at three I know it's time for a big boy bed, and Lovey is picking out the right sheets and comforter for it this week. I'm lying on the floor next to the crib, my arm squeezed through the slats, holding his hand.
"We did a lot of things today, great guy."
"Well, after you woke up you helped me with the boys's lunches..."
"And den we wake up a boys."
We woke the boys midway through making the lunches, then returned to them as the boys dragged themselves in pieces through the house to the breakfast table.
"Then we made them waffles for breakfast..."
"Me too. My ate waffles too. And you not eat any of mine."
"Yes. You had them all to yourself."
"And then we wake up Mommy..."
On it went.
So he in his old-soulish way got me to thinking. Thinking and letting go, actually. Thinking about the number of things we as people -- single or familied, young or old -- do each day. Letting go of the self-imposed cage of lousy self-esteem I allow my miserable job to push me in to.
I'm no saint. But I'm starting to think that my job on this planet has nothing to do with a paycheck or a title or a resume. Even though there is no road map, that is somewhat comforting.
He squeezes his tiny grip tighter around two of my fingers.
"We had a good day, Daddy."
"Yes we did, my guy."
"Tomowo we be strong working guys adain?"
I find myself drifitng to sleep, the kiss of death because I have a few things to do before I hit the hay. Slowly I pull my hand away and get to my knees.
"Where you going?"
"I've gotta check on the boys."
"And feed Spencer?"
"And feed Spencer."
We trade our "I love yous", and with a stifled youch! I step on an errant Lego in the dark. This makes us both giggle. I shut the door quietly and step down the hall, one note in the song ended, another about to be played.