Happy

Happy is a vague term. 

I could say that I am happy because my house is clean, and (I wish) I could say that I am happy because I won the lottery and was able to pay off the mortgage on my house.  The adjective remains the same in both sentences, yet the degree to which I mean I am happy changes. 

Two years ago tomorrow, my understanding of that word evolved into something beyond my imagination.  Before my children, I was happy.  As is still the case today, I loved my life, adored my husband, and was at peace with my world.  I was happy hanging out at the cottage.  I was happy reading books for hours on end.  I was happy shopping at every opportunity possible. 

Then Anthony was born, and the word happy took on a deeper meaning.  I was happy on two or three hours of sleep every night.  I was happy staring into his brown eyes, or watching him sleep for hours on end.  I was happy changing awful diapers.  I was happy holding him in my arms. 

As Anthony has grown and Jimmy has joined our family, so has my degree of happiness.  I am happy watching Jimmy stare at his brother in complete adoration.  I am happy trying to put two screaming, tired children to bed.  I am happy when Anthony dances to make his little brother laugh. 

My understanding of happiness changed even more this afternoon.  Anthony had just woken up from his nap, and Jimmy was still contently sleeping.  Anthony, still a bit groggy, climbed into my arms, looked right into my eyes, and said, "Mommy, Annie happy." 



Me, too.