My not-quite-two-year-old grandson and I spend a lot of time doing nothing. Or what might look like nothing.
We sit on the couch, he in his spot and me in my grandson-assigned spot, and copy each other. Knees up, legs out straight, feet wiggling, hands to our ears. You get the idea.
Then we have parades. We march on our tippy-toes, stomp, run, wiggle-walk. We make faces and sounds together and drum on whatever flat surface is available—the wall, the floor, the table.
Even having a snack is something we do together. He takes one for himself and gives one to me, then insists I eat my “one” right along with him so we can crunch together. I can’t get ahead of him or fall behind. We have to get the crunch right.
Through all these little nothings, he giggles—that melts-your-heart belly giggle that only little ones seem to know how to make. He is so tickled by what we’re doing, and I could happily keep doing it just to hear him laugh.
These moments fill my day with joy. They give me purpose and keep me young. I’m right there with him, waiting to see what he’ll do next, enjoying him as much as he’s enjoying our game.
He probably won’t remember any of this as he gets older. But I believe the feeling can stay with him: that he is loved, listened to, cherished. That I enjoy his company. That spending time with him is something I want to do.
I believe these ordinary afternoons are part of the foundation he’ll carry into his life. That matters to me, even if neither of us could tell you exactly what we did all day.
And it makes me think about how much of my own life has been made up of moments that didn’t seem like much at the time, but that I still carry with me.
None of our games cost money or take planning. We make them up as we go, and every day there seems to be more “nothing” to do.
To me, it’s everything.