Joy of Autumn through the Eyes of a 2-year Old

Any day I get to hang out with my nephew is a special day. Last weekend, my brother and sister-in-law invited me to come with them to the farmers' market near my home. Having successfully cleared my morning of previous engagements, I enthusiastically agree to such an outing. My nephew with loads of fresh produce and fall colors dripping from trees under a sapphire sky? Absolutely, positively, yes.

I ride my bike to the market and get it chained up right as my brother is parking. In the back seat, my nephew is looking out the window with a blank stare. I wave to him, watch as he first scrutinizes the person waving at him, recognizes me, and then starts bobbing around in his car seat, pointing and exclaiming what I can only imagine is "There's Aunt Katie!" with much squealing and laughing. Heart melt... now.

My nephew is turning into an amazing human. He is two and a half, speaks in full sentences, exclaims with pride his complete success at potty training, and runs circles around us like a smiling, laughing, energy-filled moon of happiness. He loves life and his joy is infectious. Of course I'm biased, but I notice people watch him, smile, and seem to love life a little more because a two year old is thrilled by bins full of "appos." I get to re-experience the autumnal world through Aidan's eyes, as we run from booths of many colored tomatos, to apple bins, to small pumpkins all lined up and gleaming, to the harmonica-playing-guitar man for a dancing intermission and finally, the deliciousness of an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie the size of your head! How wonderful to be a small human, if only for the joy of food disproportionately large!

After the activity of the market, I invite Todd and Sarah to my apartment. We drink water and talk while Aidan explores every cabinet and basket available below 3 ft. He finds boxes, bags of art supplies, weird head massaging devices and a container full of beads. We watch Aidan very carefully lay out several small boxes and start emptying the beads into a new system of organization that makes sense only to him. Sarah tries to intervene as about 15 separate tubes of beads find themselves into the same box, but I can only laugh at Aidan's correct assessment that yes, the objects present are all beads and should be classified as like. I thank Aidan for the re-organization and the daunting task of separating the beads, and he dutifully responds with "You're welcome."

Aidan has been a gift to my family. He is the first of hopefully many children from my siblings and cousins (who are like siblings to me) be they birthed, fostered, adopted or just picked up along the way. While we mourn the death of my uncle, it is refreshing to have the tangible evidence that life is cyclical, that a new generation moves into the space left by the passing of the former, and that while two distinct bookends mark this thing we call life, there is so much joy and discovery in between what could be 10 years, 40 years, or 90 years. I don't understand why, but this is the way of things. The deep pain of loss, of longing for the creation of more memories with a beloved uncle/father, son/husband/brother/friend, cuts through the noise of life and makes the moments of joy more real, more profound, more precious. Death and separation gift us with the urgency to re-prioritizing life. Birth and togetherness give us the means to enjoy that life to its overflowing brim.

In a similar way, Aidan has been a gift specifically for me.  The baton has passed and we, my generation of cousins, are now the adults deciding what traditions and family functions are going to remain important for the next 20 years. Perhaps I decide these things not so much for myself, but for the enjoyment of my little nephew, my parents and the larger family and friends around me. When I bump into my little nephew's temper, inability to stay still and focused, or his stubbornness, I put myself and desire to the side and make decisions that best guide him toward the little human he is going to be.  My childish narcissism has met its match with that of the new generation, and in love for them, I decide death to myself as best I can. Parenthood becomes our salvation, our awakening. For the love of this little, joy and awe-filled human, I can start my journey into adulthood, selflessness, the understanding that love can be unconditional. My nephew has helped me to see the importance of children in life, and perhaps given me the hope that should the stars align and the perfect circumstance present itself with the perfect person, I might have what it takes to be selfless, to love a child unconditionally, to become a better me through the purifying process of parenthood.

Whether parenthood happens for me or not, I get to experience a fraction of this process with my nephew right now. I sit down in front of a box containing a kaleidoscope of beads. The morning sun filters through my window, the steam wisps up from my mug of earl grey tea and I begin to separate the beads into their 15 appropriate tubes. Surprisingly, rather than frustration, I am overwhelmed by a feeling of thankfulness that I have this box of mixed up beads to remind me of the happiness and meaning my nephew brings to my life. Who knew a mundane task such as this could be a profound meditation on love, on the life my little nephew has brought to everyone around him. Thinking on this, my heart melts and I find myself just a little more enamored.