There is much joy to be found in small things. Which is something my rambunctious three-year-old teaches me every day. One of his favorite pastimes is jumping through enormous puddles of water.   He’s never met a wet patch he didn’t like. When puddles are not present he is sometimes distraught, at minimum let down. The joy he finds while forcing his miniature feet through the shallow pools is covetous.

I wouldn’t say I am narrow but occasionally I find myself looking past these small things and only focus on his future. What is he going to be like when he is five, or eight, or even sixteen? What sports will he play? Is he going to share my interests? Selfishly I hope he does, but in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter?

Let me answer my own question. No. I can’t control any of that; I can only control what kind of parent I am. I can only control how I react to situations when he decides to act out. As a father, watching your children grow as a direct result of how you are as a parent can sometimes be scary. It’s a good kind of scary; it’s a kind of scary that I wouldn’t change for the world.

I enjoy the lessons learned from my three-year-old, it keeps me feeling young. Not only that, but they are almost always lessons we have learned somewhere along the way and most likely forgot about.