One evening I came home feeling like a wreck. Amos would waddle over like a puckish little pixie and say hello and hug my legs. And he looked so cheery I couldn’t help picking him up and asking, in a tone laced with doubt and frustration,
‘Why are you always so happy?’
Funny thing was that Amos didn’t appear to expect the question either. His face went frigid for an instant, and then out of bashfulness he’d bury his face in my shoulder and hide his grin.
I didn’t think he knew then what gave him happiness. To be honest, Amos isn’t happy all the time, though often enough. In our previous post you would’ve read about how briefly he harbours displeasure and how quickly he turns around from a bout of anger or sadness. He still does, and it is something I still struggle to fathom and achieve.
But I know this: his innate, uncanny ability to distill immense happiness and satisfaction from many sources all at once—and of the simplest ones you can think of.
As soon as I asked him that question the answer came to me. He was happy because his Papa came home. He was happy because his favourite TV show was on. He was happy because Mummy and big brother were fussing around the flat like they always do.
He was happy because everything was predictable, functional, normal.
He was happy over the little stuff to which we have become inured. Things that once made us happy no longer do because we are always expecting and demanding more of life to feel sated, complete.
We end up necessitating hardship and tribulation as a means to remind us of the value of little things. Little things like waking up from a cosy bed, finding a bowl of hot cereal on the table, a hearty meal at lunch, being able to sing and dance, going through the day without fear of threats, knowing that you are taken care of, having your loved ones come back to you, digging into the same cosy bed at night, burying your face in fluffy pillows, snuggling into the duvet, believing that the same lovely day will come again tomorrow.
These are the little things that make Amos totter out of his bedroom every morning gabbling joyous gibberish and spreading his arms to the shafts of daylight.
Nothing fancy. Only peace and normalcy.
‘Why are you always so happy?’ I asked him, tickled him. He’d squeal and chortle. He’d burrow into my shoulders in a helpless attempt to flee the tickle-attack. Still, he wouldn’t say.
And there was really no need to.
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