Being a parent means seeing constant development, but it’s often so gradual that the moments that really shine don’t as they slip into the continuum of the everyday. But every now and then, I catch a moment, something that reminds me how much I have to be grateful for.

I catch L curled up on the couch, reading. She whispers the words to herself, folds the back on itself, and settles deeper into the corner of the couch.

Upstairs, I play with the Boy as he rolls his many cars about the floor in L’s room. “Eeee–oooo! Eeee–oooo! Eeee–oooo!” he cries, pushing his favorite police car in circles around himself. Then he tries to say “police car.”

I’m grateful for getting to hear sounds like this, that I can witness the slow development of a mind, of a personality, of a worldview, and I can help shape it. And I’m thankful that I’m learning when to back off of this “shaping.”

Later, he plays peekaboo when we are dressing him for bed, spreading his small fingers gingerly over his eyes, peeping through the lattice, probably certain I don’t notice. I remember doing that. Or am I vicariously remembering L doing that? The two kids lives are winding together into my own memories, and others are slipping away — like putting him to bed a year ago. It’s so much easier than in the past, when it meant walking for twenty, thirty, forty minutes (or more) with him on my shoulder. We were hesitant to put him down before he was completely out for fear that he would begin crying, loosening the congestion and send it all flowing out because he was so often with the sniffles. Now it’s a matter of a few moments. Slip the sleeper on, turn the light out, put the music on. He puts his head down on my shoulder. I pat his back. I pace back and forth a few moments, and when he’s ready, he pushes up from my shoulder, gives me a kiss, and says, “Spac.”

It’s that backing off that seems to be leading L back to a lost love of reading, and it’s that backing off that has led moments like our evening prayers with the Girl. We pray half a decade of the rosary, and once again, I show her how to hold the bead lightly between thumb and finger, letting the rest of the beads string out of the bottom of her hand.

With that energy she shows every day, every single day, getting her sitting still, thoughtful, is itself an accomplishment that we are only now realizing will come on its own, only with gentle guidance from us. It’s been K that pushes me to that realization, though.

“She’s just a kid,” she’ll remind with a smile. I’m thankful that sometimes I remember that without reminding.

So I finish up the day, with small thanks in three categories — spirit, spouse, children — and the realization once again that it wasn’t that difficult to find significant markers of grace for which to be thankful. And I find myself thinking, “Maybe I could do this every day.”