"Mommy, Are You Happy?"

Ellie has a new favorite question.

“Mommy, are you happy?”

She mostly says this when (I can only assume) she senses I’m losing patience (this is an especially common inquiry during the bedtime routine, after the tenth request for water and the fourteenth request for a fallen “bobby” (pacifier) or for “cream for her bottom” or another bandaid for another invisible boo-boo.

And I want to scream, No! I’m exhausted! And hormonal! And hungry! And most of all tired! It’s so, so scary. That she knows me that well and can tell. She’s not even three yet. I can’t get over how sensitive and intuitive she can be at such a young age. Frankly, it terrifies me. If this is three, what will thirteen look like?

And of course I feel guilty. Like, is it that obvious that I’m frustrated? I mean, I think I keep it together pretty well and I actually pride myself on being quite patient (most of the time). Most of the time (there it is again), I master the art of Keep The Voice Calm And Monotone and Don’t Yell Unless Someone Is In Real Danger.

Yesterday morning on the drive to school, Ellie and I were jamming out to the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse soundtrack (don’t ask). It was a glorious spring morning with ample sunshine, just a touch of chill to the air, and the promise that it would reach the precisely right temperature without ever getting uncomfortably warm (that’s coming this weekend, apparently).

Ellie was kicking her legs to the music and nibbling happily on a strawberry fruit bar (her fave), one chubby hand wrapped around her apple juice cup.

It never ceases to amaze and delight me how little it takes to make children happy sometimes, how they delight in the simplest little pleasures.

“Mommy I like this song!” she announced.

“I like this song too Ellie,” I said. “It makes me happy.”

“Oh,” said Ellie, flashing me a huge grin. “And it makes me happy too. Mommy are you happy?”

This is when I got a little teary. I blame the children. It’s uncanny and I admit, often ridiculous. I’ve always been a little prone to the waterworks but since having babies, I know that the amount of crying (OK, tearing up) at the littlest, most mundane things, borders on the absurd. I tear at Leo “reading” a picture book. I tear when Ellie twirls around like a drunken sailor in her little pink cordoroy skirt, announcing “I’m a ballerina!” I tear at those fleeting moments when Leo and Ellie are sitting, hip to hip in the giant Costco cart, giggling and shrieking with delight at some hilarious exchange said in their secret language.

And I tear at the sight of my happy little girl, kicking the seat in the car, eating a fruit bar and listening to Mickey Mouse.

Don’t let the tears fool you. I am happy.