Routines

We are sitting on the front porch waiting for the garbage truck to come. You are eating fruit and I’m drinking coffee. It is cloudy. “Cold weather,” as you like to say. Every Monday night you help me roll the garbage and recycling bins to the end of the driveway. And every Tuesday morning we wait for the trucks to come. You like to watch the mechanical arms pick up the bins, raise them high in the air, and empty them into the truck. Then you applaud. The driver waves at you and honks the horn and you say, “bye bye truck.” Life is mostly these routines. Our rituals. Things I never gave much thought to that are big events to you. You and mom water the vegetable plants out back every day and you talk to them. You come to campus with me when I need to get books from the library or return them. You love riding  the elevator there. Pressing the up button. On Sundays, you and I go out front to get the newspaper. You carry it inside to Mom. “It’s heavy,” you say. Every day—even on Sundays—you insist we check the mail. You put the key in our mailbox, turn it, open the door to see what came through the slot. When you wake up, you say good morning to all of us, even Apricot. Every night you give me a kiss and a high five and a fist bump and say, “see you in the morning, daddy. “

There are routines, and there are surprises, too. All the time. You are talking so much, new words, more complex sentences. You are drawing a lot now, and coloring, and doing puzzles, and reading so many books, and playing with your stuffed animals and your Lego action figures. Everything you do amazes me. 

Sometimes you are a challenge. Sometimes you cry and scream and you don’t seem to know what you want. You can be stubborn about naps. You lead me around by the finger and try to take me to the park when we don’t have time to walk to the park. But none of this is hard. It’s just more surprises. Riding the wave. Improvising. Changing the routine. 

You are two now. And I just had a birthday. We are each getting older in different ways. I’m trying to bank all these moments. I want to remember the routines. When I think back to my youth and young adulthood I mostly just remember the big things, the accomplishments or failures, the moves to new towns, the decisions I made at all the crossroads. I don’t remember the day-day-day, my mornings, my commute, when I checked the mail or took out the trash. But these days, it all looks different with you. The stuff of life shines in unexpected ways. Now we clap for the garbage truck.