Gravity Is Still Functional

My youngest just launched a handful of cheerios onto the floor. Again. It’s a classic power move, really—pure, unadulterated defiance in high-chair form. He doesn’t just drop them; he releases them with dramatic flair.

Beans, our resident vacuum disguised as a dog, is already on the scene. These days, she has added Primary Cleanup Crew to her extensive list of titles. Honestly, she’s the only one in this house who still recognizes the chain of command. She sees a fallen oat; she executes the order. No questions asked.

I bend down to see if there are any stragglers and linger there for a second, eye-level with the dust bunnies, and Hot Wheels cars. From this vantage point, I can see my daughter’s feet swinging—those tiny, restless pendulums that haven’t quite figured out how to reach the ground yet. When did her legs get so long? It’s a complete miracle and a heartbreak all at once. One day you’re snapping onesies; the next, they’re outgrowing the furniture.

I finally stand up and reload the cheerios plate. Predictably, my son immediately hurls half of them back into the abyss. It’s like he’s testing gravity to see if it still works, or perhaps he just enjoys the sight of my lower back slowly giving out. Spoiler: gravity is still functional. My back is TBD. And for once, I’m actually laughing. I haven’t even had enough caffeine to be this mindful, but the absurdity is just too perfect to ignore.

Lately life seems to just be a series of sticky floors and repeat cycles. We’re all just living in the great loops. We brew the coffee, forget it, reheat it, and drink it cold anyway. We drop the crumbs, sweep them up, and start all over again. Just hoping we’re getting the important stuff right in the margins. That’s Saturday, I guess. It’s a total mess, but it’s my mess, and today, the floor and I are finally on speaking terms.