"Just let her jump."
We were strolling through the gardens of the Chateau de Chantilly and it was our last day in France. My husband said those words after I had repeatedly voiced my concern over the state of my two-year-old daughter's leggings and dress as mud and cold water splashed above her rubber boots. There seem to be a puddle on the garden path every five feet. I stared in frustration as she let out a giggle and jumped both feet first into the next one. I sighed, staring past her towards the picturesque scene behind us. A 14th century home of a French noble family; stone walls, graceful architecture and elegant gates. It was too beautiful to be irritated, yet there I was, wrinkles across my forehead and my lips crooked into a frown as Isabelle splashed into yet another puddle.
I feel like I spend half my time as a mother cleaning up spills and accidents and rubbing stains out of clothes. Its even worse when you are on a three week trip to Europe with two toddlers. In my defense I was trying to avoid as much mess as possible. But I somehow failed to see the green grass and blue sky and most of all the wonder in my daughter's eyes. She wasn't worried about her clothes or cold water or my feelings on the matter. All she knew was she was free. No one was strapping her into a carseat or holding tightly to her hand or telling her to sit still. She was simply being a child, in all the the glory and wonder of it all.
As we meandered deeper through the gardens, leaving the chateau behind, I was reminded quite vividly how easily it is to forget beauty amidst worry. I was letting my importance on appearance and comfort take over the deeper meanings of life. We had just spent an entire hour touring one of the most beautiful, historic buildings I've ever visited and within minutes of walking out the exit doors I was worried about minor inconveniences. I forgot the pleasure of my child's heart and focused on the selfishness of my own. Too many times I fixate on everything out of place instead of seeing the depth of richness right below the surface of chaos. As I passed the broken bridges and overgrown statues amongst the garden paths, remnants of the french past, I could hear Isabelle's laughter echoing the trees. She was surrounded by beauty and that was all she saw. Would that I had eyes to see that more often. Would that we all.
And so she kept jumping, from puddle to puddle, trekking through the mud, her curls askew and her cheeks ruddy red.
