We back out of the driveway and head down the road, me on a mission, they along for the ride. About a half mile down the road the three-year-old whimpers from behind, "I forgot my birthday card."
Oh, he remembered. That power rangers card that he carries around everywhere because the characters speak at the push of a button.
I look through the rear view mirror, "I'm sorry we forgot it, honey. It will be safe for you at home."
"Nooo. Turn around, mom," he whimpers.
I contemplate all that I have to accomplish. I don't want to turn around. I don't have ten or even five extra minutes. It's a card, after all. Just a card.
I glance through the rear view mirror once again to witness the concern in his eyes and through them I see his little heart.
I sigh deep to slow my momentum and begin to shuffle around tasks in my head, re-figuring those time-allotted puzzle pieces.
I spot a driveway ahead and hang a left. I turn around to go get that card. Not because I'm such a softy or because I cater to my children's beckon call or because this is always how I respond. But because at the end of the day, out of everything that I had accomplished, I realize that my biggest accomplishment will always be in the ways I slowed down enough to cultivate the heart of a child.
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