the little things

My job takes me to New Orleans once a year, and one of my absolute favorite places there is the ladies' room at Brennan's. Not the actual restaurant--the restroom. Because there's an attendant named Mary who works there, albeit sporadically now--she's in her eighties and when she asked about scaling back hours the owners told her, "This is your house. You come and go as you please." Mary is known for delivering some of the most vital and succinct wisdom you will ever hear. On one trip she told my mom, "It's not the big things. It's the little things." Everybody has heard that a thousand times before, but sometimes you don't really hear something until it's echoing off the Brennan's ladies' room walls. Such is the Mary Effect.

Today the Big Things are that I have a grumpy teething toddler with the sniffles and the house is looking sort of sad and naked with all the Christmas decorations taken down. But it's not the big things, it's the little things.

Like the butter bell my mom gave us for Christmas, and its magical and dangerous ability to keep fresh, softened butter on hand at all times.

Or the fact that our dogs are back from the boarding kennel where they stayed while we were in the mountains, and Einstein's commitment to staying horizontal for as many hours of the day as possible is a pretty relaxing influence. (Except for when he knocks over the trash can and barks at the UPS guy between his naps. But It's Not the Big Things!)

This mockingjay brooch was a gift from my sweet mother-in-law, and I've been wearing it with nerdy pride. Plus it helps me identify fellow Hunger Games dorks in public, and no, I don't care that half of them are 13 years old.

And sometimes all you really need is to go play with a toddler who is still absolutely in awe of something as simple as a tree. Mary could tell you that, and so can I.