…is what makes life so sweet," wrote Emily Dickinson (one of the literary luminaries Jane and I both believe worthy of goddess status).  So true, Emily.  

(Jane: so true, Lizzie!  LOL)  

And never is the "unrepeatable" aspect of life clearer than when we are carefully observing the quickly changing seasons–and the wonder–of childhood.

So, now that we have both shared parenting horror stories, what about the unparalleled moments of aching, heart-drenching sweetness?  Oh yes–we have both recounted many of those to each other.  And so, in these post-Thanksgiving days of remembering the goodness of family, it seems appropriate to share bits of the sweet and the sublime.  My story takes place five years ago, when my youngest child was five.  Since I have four children, it is the only time I have ever had the luxury of enjoying just one child at home who is old enough to talk and reason and delight in life….

When my son Bart was five years old, he was a heavy sleeper. He is the youngest of my four children–and was the only one still at home with me during the day that year. By the time Bart rolled out of bed and made his way downstairs on a weekday morning, all three of his older sisters had long since left for school. The older kids did not willingly rise so early, of course. They loathed their alarm clocks, and they suffered through the mornings with a sort of grim and grumpy determination. Nearly every day my girls proclaimed their envy of Bart’s long, uninterrupted morning snooze.

For several mornings in a row, my normally cheerful little boy had seemed glum and distracted as he sat eating his solitary oatmeal at the breakfast table. He wished out loud that he could have managed to wake up with his big sisters, and he seemed generally forlorn as he went about his own routine.

One morning, however, as I bustled about helping the girls get ready for school, I heard a triumphant cry from the bottom of the stairs. I walked into the hallway to see Bart standing in his pajamas grinning from ear to ear. He rubbed his hands together and beamed with anticipation and delight.

"Good morning, Bart," I greeted him. "You’re up nice and early this morning."

"Now I know why Sissies love to get up at this time," he declared.

"Why is that?"

"Because," he told me in an awed tone, "they all get to walk the golden pathway if they get up in time. And now I can too."

"What do you mean, Sweetheart? What golden pathway?"

Bart stood near the front door and pointed to the shaft of light coming in through one of the long, thin windows next to the door. The honey-colored beam ran down the entire length of the wood-floored hallway—and it was indeed a perfect golden pathway leading directly to the breakfast table in the kitchen.

"I knew everyone must be getting up for something special," he crowed. "And now I know what they’ve been doing. They’ve been walking up and down the golden pathway to get some magic to start their day. And now I get to do it too!"

My son lifted his head high and walked ceremoniously up and down the golden pathway a few times as his sisters looked on inn sleepy amusement. Then, having arrived after his final procession at the table, he asked if I would please get him his oatmeal now. He flashed us all celebratory smiles as he ate his breakfast and then bade each of his sisters a fond farewell. Bart clearly felt himself to have entered into the magical fellowship of the golden pathway.

Jane

And sure enough… there it was.  Silly name and all, right there on Webs.com.  Acid green text headers, looking very cool against the black techno background.  Pages!  He had separate pages for his various categories.  Beatles.  Power Rangers (the precursor to Star Wars, of course). Apple Computer, Inc.  My News, no kidding, blurbs and updates about himself.  He’d uploaded pictures of his favorite things, and put them in all the appropriate places, along with some very Ringo-esque commentary.  There was even a guest book for friends and members to leave messages.  I was very impressed.