My oldest child doesn’t really care.
I mean, he cares about some stuff. You know, the really important things in life.
Today was an odd day of ups and downs and I was struggling to make sense of it all. Then while putting my oldest kid to sleep, some truth dawned on me.
He doesn’t care that I had spaghetti carbonara for breakfast.
He doesn’t care that I didn’t leave the house and ate Oreos for lunch.
He doesn’t care that I handled a situation with one of my reps today less than gracefully.
He also doesn’t care that a keystone professional goal is now almost within my grasp.
He doesn’t care that I signed a huge order at work today.
He doesn’t care that I later went back and apologized for said less-than-graceful handling of that situation.
He just cares that the baked beans we picked out, together, were delicious and tasted of brown sugar.
He just cares that his bath monsters are arranged for tomorrow night’s bath battles.
He just cares that we read a book about fireflies and then turned out the light to watch them light up and dance in the darkness.
He just cares that his dog sleeps in his bedroom most nights; resting just underneath, watchful and present.
He just cares that it’s 3 more sleeps until Mommy gets home from her trip.
Maybe Daddy should take a tip from the kid and stick to worrying about what’s really important.
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