Everyday when I buckle Ben into his carseat, I take advantage of our closeness and give him a kiss. Sometimes it’s a way to calm him as he wrestles with the straps; or maybe it’s our first – and only – quiet exchange of the evening, when I can see evidence of the day on his little puss. But there’s something wonderful about that moment, and now I notice the same thing in other cars. There’s a father who gently kisses his daughter’s forehead as he unbuckles; another child looking up and smiling, winter hat still on, knowing mama is going to give her a little smooch.
The tiny moments of tenderness are as fleeting as sunshine in a Seattle January, but they are far more omnipresent. When things get too tense, I can look and see those moments, how love really can be that integrated into the mundane, as easy to tell someone as it is to fasten your seatbelt.