Gabby is three. She's a cute ball of energy and black curls, and on Saturday she was dressed in jeans, a yellow tee shirt and a cape (I am so jealous, since nobody will let me have a cape). Her mom and I met at San Francisco State University in the Anthropology department. We took most of the same courses to fulfill our requirements, and we worked together on some projects. In spite of living only about thirty miles apart, we hardly ever get to see each other. We chat online, via text messages, and the occasional cup of coffee. Saturday, we got to hang out at the California Academy of Sciences.
Gabby had tried drinking her milk through a paper straw (the Academy is really big on environmental preservation and doesn't offer plastic in the cafe). When the straw became too much of a pain, Mom tossed it and had Gabby try drinking straight from the carton. We were chatting and keeping an eye on the kids (Aiden is in love with Gabby; he thought she was so funny and cute.) when Gabby spilled milk on herself. She looked a shocked and upset for a split second, but a moment later, she let out the most magical giggle. There was no crying over the spilled milk.
Right there, I knew I was going to write about it. Her attitude was perfect. Something inconvenient and not super comfortable happened, and she just giggled. We all had to laugh, too, because little people have energies that are contagious. She kept her sense of fun and adventure even when the adventure didn't work out. If she can do that, with a group of strangers, in the middle of a crowded museum, why can't we as adults?
I think next time I drop a dish in the kitchen or tip over the condiments, I'm going to try giggling instead (possibly after I'm done swearing, since I'm rather fond of some of my expletives). Maybe things won't seem so serious, and it certainly beats crying.