There is something very innocent about children. They have a certain knack of keeping life simple, yet fresh. One wonders why we don’t pay more attention to the little ones in our lives.

My five-year old daughter has this joy that literally radiates from every inch of her being. By the way she kisses my cheek or the way she wraps her little arms around my neck just makes me want to melt. It doesn’t matter how frustrated I might be about something that may have happened. As soon as those big eyes sparkle in my direction or the way her cute smile stretches from ear to ear, I realize that everything will be just fine. My daughter’s joy is powerful. It is pure, unadulterated, saturated joy.

I wonder why we, as adults, spend so much time looking for happiness when we should be looking for joy. I learned years ago there’s a difference between being happy and being joyful. Happiness comes from happenings around us, relating to circumstances and situations whereas joy comes from within, a gift from our Creator that assures us that all is well, regardless of circumstances. 

What happens to us as we get older that seem to rob us of that same joy that children seem to exude so much of? For me, I guess it was the natural stage of parenthood. After having children, I felt like I needed to always be that responsible adult, that parent that had to have everything in control. It took me many years (and my dear friend Kathy) to take the blinders off my eyes and make me realize that although you are a parent, you don’t always have to be a parent. In a nutshell, what this meant was that it’s okay to remove my parental mask in order to get down to the child-like level of my children. It means that not only is it okay to leave the dirty dishes on the counter so I can chase my kids around the house, but sometimes it’s necessary to do so.

Recently I took my daughter to the Children’s Museum. We’ve had a membership there for years and have visited many times. However, no matter how many times we’ve been to this museum, every time my daughter gets to an exhibit, she acts like it’s her first time seeing this exhibit. I watch in amazement as she crawls into the tortoise shell and pretends that she’s a turtle. Or how about the way she carefully paints a flower or rainbow on her cheek with face paint? She’s done it more than a dozen times. But each time, however, it’s like it was her first.

As we left the museum that day, I watched with a full heart the way my daughter skipped down the corridor to the parking ramp where our car was waiting. I silently pleaded with her to never grow up, to always be like this, to always have this joy. Then I remembered that I didn’t have to watch from the sidelines. I can take off my parental mask and share in my daughter’s exuberance. I am proud to say I did just that. We held hands and skipped all the way to the parking lot, giggling out loud to anyone and everyone who cared to hear. After all, those dirty dishes can wait.