Little People Joy
It's so much easier when you just ARE the joy.
Deeply intent on the conversation taking place on the Zoom box in front of me, I felt impervious to distraction. I had intentionally booked three back-to-back calls so I could be done by noon on a Friday and turn my attention to my family.
Then I heard it. A sound so gleeful it penetrated my headset and my heart.
Giggling.
Not just any giggling, but the sweet bubbling contagious kind of giggling that can only come from a little person. My daughter was outside on a tree swing, hair flying as she unfurled from the tightly wound starting point to the dizzying end.
“Now that’s what joy sounds like,” I thought, a smile sneaking its way up my insides. It anchored me as the branches caught the sound of her joy while the roots held firm and steady, keeping her safe.
When I was in my 20’s, I said I wanted to have a child for the free manual labor. I mean, how else do you get the carpet vacuumed and the toilets cleaned? As life got more complicated in my early 30’s, I amended that to wanting my own opportunity to fuck up parenting. It felt wrong to do that to someone else’s kid as a stepparent, but seemed like part of the gig if the kid was biologically yours (I maintain my early 30’s were not my most psychologically sound years). And then in my mid-30’s I actually met someone whom I couldn’t imagine NOT having a child with, and that felt like the best reason yet. Well, and that I could literally hear my ovaries ticking while I slept.
If you asked me now why I had a child, I would not say “joy.” I honestly still don’t know what led me to motherhood. That’s odd to admit as I’ve always known I wanted to be a mother. In fact, as the oldest child of a single mother, I was far more comfortable with the idea of parenting than marriage. When my ten-year relationship ended at the age of 30, I told my mom that if I wasn’t married by the time I was 35, I was going to adopt a baby.
“A 5-year old,” she responded.
“What?” I said, “Why a 5-year old?”
“Well, Jessica, you don’t do well with people who don’t respond quickly or do what you want them to and patience isn’t exactly your strong suit so a baby might be…difficult. But you’d be wonderful with a 5-year old.”
That kid on the tree swing? She’s 5. I get it now Mom. You were right.
There’s something about little people. And I mean that literally…they are Little. People…which makes their joy all the more authentic. It’s not the joy of an infant first discovering his feet. It’s the joy of a fully formed human discovering the whole world.
Now, there are some requirements for little people joy. A 5-year old who hasn’t eaten and is working off of even 15 minutes less sleep than usual is the opposition of joy, yours and anyone else’s within a mile radius. They don’t discriminate. But, let them sleep and then give them that good good, and you are in for a treat. The songs, the dances, the hugs. It’s all scrumdiddlyumptious!
My daughter is a one-woman show. Put her with 3 of her friends, and it’s a night at the comedy club. It’s also likely to end in tears at some point, so the joy may be short-lived, but it’s there, and it compounds, the most fortuitous savings account you can imagine. If you are greedy with that joy, if you stock pile it away, you have so much to draw from in darker days.
When I am away from home overnight, my daughter and I exchange voice messages. Hearing her sweet syllables is a joy bath that completes my day and provides comfort for the next.
Her joy can be soft like that, but it can also be L-O-U-D! Her father and I are often jolted in to our mornings by unexpected exclamations or belts of laughter that are both entirely joyful and shockingly voluminous. She often half-heartedly apologizes with a “but I’m just sooooo excited!” In other words, her joy cannot be contained. Ohhhhh, to be uncontainable again.
This range of little people joy is something I yearn for. They are wide open, no holds barred, 90 miles an hour, full tilt, careening through these younger years in fits and starts and joy follows along playfully pouncing next to them, a faithful puppy who’s content to just be by their side for whatever adventure awaits.
Where along the way does the joy tire, the boister lose its -ous, the wide open become closed and cramped? I don’t know, but I’d love to follow the bread crumbs back.
Little people do all of the best stuff. They eat three snacks and then top it off with ice cream and call it dinner. They want unicorns AND rainbows AND dinosaurs AND princesses at their birthday parties. They expect to go to the playground AND the water park. They unapologetically wear shiny shit ever-y-where. They run when they feel like it, ride when they’re tired, and have zero concept of calories in or out. They tell potty jokes and do cartwheels and go down inflatable water slides without collapsing them 🙄. They kiss on the lips, ask for snuggles, read in bed with a flashlight, and sleep amongst 1000 super soft animals that love them. They are loud and rowdy and handsy and footsy and dirty and smell good and wear cute shoes that light up and underwear that intentionally covers their bellies. They ARE joy.
And so, my new goal is to be a little person. Finding joy seems much harder than just being it, and they seem to have that in the bag. So, every time I get an invitation to hop on the tree swing, I do it, praying that the roots of said tree are deeply committed to that “firm and steady” thing. I already wear underwear that covers my belly, but I’d 🩷 some light up shoes for my birthday. The cartwheels may kill me, and I actually hate potty jokes, but I’m down for an industrial strength water slide and shiny shit.
Oh, and don’t forget the snacks. I’ll take 4 just to be sure. Because being extra? Well, the little people know. That’s what it’s all about!
Love this. Mom here and elementary school counselor. Can confirm. Bring on the snack and shiny shit!