The Day I Learned It’s All Small Stuff

We sat on the knob of Mica peak, which was rocky and covered in quartz, and the iron gray clouds crushed down on us. We could see the mountain ranges of northeastern Washington and Idaho from our vantage point above the valley.

On a chilly November Wednesday in 2016, something Very Big Stuff occurred. My eleven-year-old son, who must have sensed my mood, sat next to me. The decision taken by the alleged majority the day before left me feeling terrified, indignant, and deeply disappointed in my nation and fellow people.

Important things. The kind of things that have the power to transform the planet.

However, the young guy seated next to me was the thing that most impressed me about that particular moment. When I had told him that morning that I was going to spend the day disappearing up a trail, he had hurried to put on his hiking boots. In order to prevent myself from being permitted to mope in peace and quiet as I had planned, I quickly packed another sandwich into the rucksack and tried my best to conceal my anger.

I realized we were now the same height when my son rested his head on my shoulder. His boyhood wouldn't last long. We both tracked the route of a little silver plane that I pointed out was making a safe landing at the regional airport.

He whispered, "I love you, Mommy." It was just what my heart needed to hear at that moment, even though he hadn't called me mommy in years. It was a little thing, but at that time, it was everything. Actually, it's the only thing I can still completely recall from that day and the days that followed.

You see, even in the midst of major events, the little things are what count.

Little things make up life.

Natural disasters, international events, births and deaths, and love earned and lost are all significant occurrences in life. There are typically a few key events that define each decade when we reflect on our life. We can watch sentimental films about "the events that shaped a generation" if we are unable to.

However, the event is rarely the big deal.

My family visited Epcot and Disney World when I was eleven years old. "Disney Families," or groups that organized several park visits throughout the year, didn't actually exist in 1987. Kids would fantasize of going to Disney, expecting to be among the fortunate families who would one day spend their summer vacation there rather than camping or visiting relatives.

It was our time at last. I doubt that I slept at all during the week before we left.

We wouldn't be traveling thousands of miles to visit Disney World because my family was firmly lower middle class. Rather, my parents organized a fantastic road trip to our destination, a motel in La Quinta that is a few miles away from the park. One of my dad's coworkers, who were constantly giving him presents in the hopes that he would select their goods for the delis he oversaw, had given him weeklong passes.

My recollection of the park days is quite limited. Though they all kind of blur together, I do have some memories.

The toothbrushes are what I recall.

I had only encountered three different kinds of vending machines at this stage of my life: those that held food, soda, or smokes (which were still available at the time). There was another kind of vending machine in the motel next to the ice machine. It was packed with things the tired traveler would have overlooked. Travel toothbrushes with toothpaste in the handle that rose through the bristles when squeezed were the ultimate convenience, along with deodorant and razors.

My sister and I were fascinated by those toothbrushes for some reason. You can only imagine how happy we were when Dad said we could save a few pennies to buy them. In order to rescue the brushes, we alternately turned the knob and watched as they fell. My dad also purchased one for himself on a whim.

The toothbrushes didn't work out. Contrary to the packaging's advertisement, squeezing the handle did not produce the ideal swirl of paste on the brush. It simply glopped up through the bristles instead. Even worse, the toothpaste kept oozing out since it was impossible to avoid squeezing the fragile handle when brushing.

Between my sister and I, my dad and I were standing in front of the mirror, cackling uncontrollably as we frothed at the mouth like crazed raccoons. My mom was laughing so hard that all of the pictures she took with her little point-and-shoot camera ended up being blurry.

Disappointing toothbrushes are minor inconveniences. It's also little things to laugh over with the ones you care about the most.

Of all, it's also minor business to let disappointment spoil the moment. Throwing away the brush out of annoyance and allowing it to ruin the atmosphere are trivial matters.

The little things make up life, but how we respond to them is up to us.

What will you recall?

I didn't fully grasp the lesson for a while. I had lost sight of the significance of little moments by the time I had my own family.

On a different day, I am the parent attempting to create memories for my own child. It is a September Saturday. We threw my oldest son's first party with friends instead than just relatives to celebrate his sixth birthday. It was my first time hosting a gathering of such kind as a mother.

It had to be flawless, I was certain.

We even bought a store-made cake and party favors because it was so wonderful. I tried to load the favors onto the checkout belt at the store while balancing a baby and a few of them, but my grasp slipped and the favors rolled across the floor. The elderly cashier approached to assist with gathering the merchandise.

I think she saw the tears welling up in my eyes. As I attempted to create the ideal memories for my kids, I felt hurried, annoyed, and overburdened. She squeezed my shoulder before heading back around to the register.

I stumbled out an apology, flustered. She gave me a smirk before hitting me with her remarks, which made perfect sense.

Despite my confusion from the waves of relief that swept over me, I chuckled with her when she remarked, "They aren't going to remember the favors, only that they had a mom that threw them parties."

Why was I handling a birthday celebration as if I were organizing a convoluted military invasion? Who gave a damn if the cake was flawless or if all the mothers and kids were impressed by the favors?

Did I want my son to have happy memories of this event, or did I want him to experience anxiety as my frustration and tension crept into his subconscious?

How we respond to the little things is up to us. It may be something we embrace or something we worry about.

It's all little things, but when Rome fell, it started a chain of events that still affects people today. However, it was minor issues that accumulated over many generations that led to Rome's downfall.

You and I are standing here now because of numerous minor things that have likewise accumulated over decades. This is demonstrated by the little things in my own life.

As his mother, a tiny act of kindness from a young boy gives me comfort and gives me the will to keep going.

As if he were still standing next to me now, a tiny item like a toothbrush evokes memories of my father.

A random stranger's modest act of kindness serves as a reminder to me to make sure my kids have positive memories rather than just stressful ones. The same way my dad did for me.

While big things happen and are over, little things keep piling up every second. The little things are what count. A lifetime, an impression on a memory, a civilization, and its culture are all formed by the little things.

Whether we are resilient, loved, or survive depends on the little things.

I'll worry about the little things. I'll accept it and make an effort to face it with the optimism and happiness I wish to define my life.

After all, we are all composed of stardust, and nothing is smaller than the material that makes up stars.