Jazz Music at Night

Heather Spiva essays

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I have this cute child. He's eight now. And tall for his age. And very much like my first born with his perfectionist tendencies.

While extremely responsible, and this year has been exceptional—him telling me what homework he has the day before it's due, that he wants to take his spelling pretests with absolutely no help from me, reading like a champ—he forgot something really important the second week of school last year. It’s a reminder to the difference between a seven and eight-year-old. The difference between child and young man.

He went to school without his shoes.

Okay, not the end of the world. I drove up to the “drop off” area, ready to expel my two children to the world of learning, when I hear, “I don't have my shoes!”

I glanced at him from the rear view mirror, sure he hadn’t said what he just said. But his face said even more than his words. He looked like he was going to be sick; scared I would be mad at him. All I could do was say, “Okay. Wow.”

There was no way I could be angry, even though I should have been. There was also no way could I tell him that he seriously ruined my morning routine, that I'd be late meeting a friend for coffee, or that I didn't care. Because I did care.

Why? Because this cute child, my cute child, was everything to me. On the good days. And the bad days. And though I yearned for the simple mornings (which rarely happened) today was going to be like most every other day: disorganized.

What did I do? I walked him to his class in his stocking feet and went home to get his shoes.

Normally, this event really wouldn't have been so bad. But, as the “schedule gods” had worked out for me in advance, today was the day that I was already making three trips to and from home and school.

This little jaunt would make it a fourth.

I texted my friend that I would be a little bit late to coffee and began the drive.

I so wanted to be angry. But, I literally couldn't. I couldn't even muster up the frustration. There was nothing. I think I felt this way partly because I knew it would be fruitless. I mean, the kid was shoeless. And partly because by ranting and raving, I would be admitting that I thought I had control of my little day.

Clearly, I had none. God had it. And He made this concept known to me with my cute child forgetting to slip on his shoes.


About the Author

Heather Spiva

I am a in Sacramento, California, spend most of my time swashbuckling with my two boys, and love selling vintage clothing through my Etsy store.

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March 2015 – Simplify
We are partnering this month with the marvelous minimalists:
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