"My God, it's full of stars!"

The twins had an eventful weekend earlier in the month. Duncan, Hanna, and I drove to Pennsylvania to pick up Maggie, my mother-in-law, while Tristan spent the weekend with my parents. Both boys had a great time, but as we traveled back home on Sunday the twins were increasingly tired and cranky. Hanna's family offered to make us dinner at their house, which was great, but it took that much longer to get the kids back home. To make matters worse, when we told Tristan that his mom was going to stay and visit with her brother for a while instead of coming directly home with Maggie and me, the little boy lost it. He started crying as soon as we started moving toward the car, trying to complain and demand but crying too hard to make himself clear, and then crying more in his frustration. Maggie and I were treated to constant crying from both boys on the way back to the house; not your regular, every day crying that might come from a child who fell and bumped his head or got stung by a bee, but the wailing, crazed sort of screaming that is limited in its potential to drive me insane only by my sons' relatively small lung capacity. We suffered this throughout the (thankfully) short drive home, reminding each other that they were simply tired beyond their ability to control themselves, and only their beds would make things better. In fact, I was rather proud of myself, for maintaining a cool, calm disposition despite the two monsters in the back of my car doing everything in their power to make me angry.

When I parked the car, the boys were still in (ahem) full cry. I shut off the engine, got out, and started to remove Tris from his car seat, doing my best to efficiently move them toward their beds and thus limit the amount of time I had to listen to wailing children. I picked up an exhausted, still weeping child, his cheeks flushed red and his eyes squinted in his efforts to show the entire world how unhappy he was. I calmly held my boy, speaking to him in even tones, hoping my calm would be infectious. And then, in a flash of inspiration, I knew exactly what would solve this problem.

"Tristan," I said softly. "Tristan, look up."

Image credit: Patrick Hoesly

To my surprise, he did as he was told. He stopped crying. His eyes grew wide. The Milky Way arced overhead, and Ursa Major hung low and bright on the horizon, transforming my son instantly from a tired, screaming brat into a small child filled with silent wonder. He didn't need someone prompting him to say the night sky was beautiful, or to hear long-winded explanations about how far away the stars are. He doesn't yet know that stars are giant balls of hellfire, or that they are the ultimate forges of every atom in our bodies, or their number are uncounted billions in the vast Universe in which we exist.

My son, my beautiful boy, was simply looking up at a clear night sky above the mountains of his ancestors, and he was awestruck.

It is a cliché that children make us appreciate the little, important things in life, but it's a trope for a reason. So much of my life of the last few years has revolved around managing mundane details of life. I spend my days solving technical issues and writing dry, detailed (some might even say "boring") technical documentation. Balancing the checkbook or doing the grocery shopping or repairing a window in the house are the types of concerns that weigh on my mind when I get home. And in the few free moments I carve out for myself during the day, I'm reading productivity blogs or Mac OS X tips or political coverage; even my "recreational" reading at the moment is an academic treatise about child development. Fascination, wonder, and amazement often seem to be in short supply for me. In contrast, Duncan and Tristan are free of all of the burdens of life, at least for a while. They live in a world full of magic and mystery, excitement and awe. When I see my sons look up into that clear night sky, I can rekindle that same feeling of amazement of the grand Universe we live in.

Keep looking up, my boys.