Going into the weekend, tension was everywhere.
Democrats divided over how much Michigan and Florida delegates should count.
NASA nervous over how many missing space shuttle tiles should be acceptable.
And two little boys whose greatest worry was wondering if dad would ever get home.
Enough of this work thing. Back to the play thing.
Two boys more obsessed with hoping it was warm enough to swim, than the markets beaten enough to buy.
Such things don't matter when you're five and six years old.
Not when you have a caterpillar collection to show and you're convinced they're on the verge of becoming butterflies.
Or learn you have a speaking line in a kindergarten graduation and you're convinced it's the only speech that matters.
To them, to me, it does.
The caterpillars. The speech.
The musings of two little boys in a big world, otherwise consumed by big worries. But not their worries.
They immediately want me to map out our weekend plans.
Will we swim? Will we go to the movies?
Will we, when all is said and done, simply play?
Obviously nothing profound I'm sharing here, just the magic of the moment as seen in the eyes of a five-year-old boy and a six-year-old boy who see only now, only here.
They keep me grounded on things that matter.
I think, precisely because they have a way of reminding me, in their eyes and innocence, of the things that do not matter much at all.
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