You know what enchants me so about spring? Its misleading simplicity. The rain comes: the flowers bloom. More rain comes: the trees grow an inch taller than they were last spring. Now, I took biology. I know that a more complex science lies beneath it all. Yet, on the surface, all I see is green. And ever-growing baby toes. And a little one who is several inches taller than last spring. Even the logic (at least the surface logic) all seems so simple:
On Sunday, Jason began singing. "Day-o. Day-ay-ay-o. Daylight come and me wanna go home."
"We're home already," said Audrey.
Monday some neighbors stopped by. Each of their toddlers gave Audrey a plastic egg filled with candy as a little Easter gift. Audrey was allowed to eat a couple pieces of candy from one egg that night before going to bed. The next day she asked if she could have the rest of the candy. She ate the skittles one by one until the egg was empty. "Well, my journey is all done," she said.
In the mornings I tell Audrey to pick out a book, which I read to her as I brush and "style" her hair. Often, she chooses her beginner's Bible and asks me to read from it. The last two weeks she's been requesting the stories about the women of the Bible: Sarah, Hannah, Ruth, and Esther. Tuesday, when I finished pulling her hair back into a ponytail, she pointed out that I wasn't in the Bible. I explained that the Bible was written a long time ago before I was born. That night, at dinner, I relayed the story to Jason.
Kristin: "She told me today that I wasn't in the Bible."
Jason: (To Audrey) "Yes she is, honey. You remember the part about sinners? (Audrey nods.) That's your mama."
Audrey: "Daddy, what's sinners about?"
Kristin: "Yeah, Daddy, what's sinners about?"
Wednesday's dinner conversation also revolved around mamas and daddies.
Audrey: "Daddy is my daddy."
Jason: "Did you put that together yourself?"
Audrey: "No. Someone else did."
We like to begin our meals by holding hands and saying a blessing. This week, Audrey commented that when we held hands at dinner we made a circle. Jason is typically already on his way to work by the time Audrey and I sit down for breakfast, so I usually only take one of her hands before praying in the morning. Wednesday she noticed that the two of us didn't make a circle. Thursday, I thought I'd solve the problem. I took both of her hands before we began our meal. I told her we could make a circle. She looked at our outstretched arms making two parallel lines. "That's not a circle," she said. "It's a rectangle."
Thursday afternoon the temperature reached eighty degrees. The sun was high and full, showing its strength. I told Audrey she couldn't go outside until I put sunscreen on her.
"Okay, mom. Put some sunshine on me," she said.
Today we played with friends from Ohio. We see them a handful of times each year. Our girls, three stair steps, take turns surpassing each other in height, weight, and speed. They play as their mother (a former classmate and friend for the last two decades) and I catch up, trading parenting secrets and laughing at their antics. It is simple really. You feed a child then watch her grow. You nurture a friendship then watch it blossom. You plant the seeds, nourish with care, and wait for nature to take its course. Just as assuredly as the arrival of spring, it does. Underneath lies a complex science. But this moment, as my little one digs with growing fingers in green-sprouting dirt (giving statistics on the numbers of worms she's found) all I see is the magic of spring - so simply enchanting.
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