It was one of those days. You’ve had these. When life is too much and you can feel it dragging on your shoulders even though it’s not literally heavy. There were overdue bills, the notifications on the phone would not shut off, and everything was closing in. There was a grind, responsibilities, pressure of keeping it all together. I needed air, space—something.
So I decided to hit pause.
I looked at my son, my little boy with messy mop of hair and smile could melt stone and I said let’s go get a milkshake. No big plans. No distractions. Just the two of us. A small escape from the chaos.
We went to the old corner diner on corners that were right, where the floors were still checkerboard from the ’80s and the booths squeaked if you breathed too hard. It’s not fancy, but I know it. Vanilla milkshake, no whip, extra cherry has always been Nolan’s order. I just sat back on one of those cold, metal chairs, pretending I was present but floating far away somewhere in my thoughts, as he ordered with the kind of confidence only a five year old can have.
By then I saw him standing next to another little boy, he or she might have been three or four. The boy had sneakers that laced up in such tiny sizes and well past the point of normal wear or hygiene, and his pants were the type of baggy gray shorts that toddlers always seem to have been swimming in. They hadn’t spoken a word. No introductions. No questions. Just… this unspoken ease.
The way Nolan walked up to him was like two friends that had known each other forever, and he slung one arm around the boy’s shoulder. And without a word he held out his milkshake, the one I just bought him, and gave both hands over it. Such a holy ritual was it, two small faces leaning in sipping from the same straw.
Germs, manners or ‘mine’ didn’t worry them. And they didn’t ask where he from or what language he spoke or whose parents he was from. They did not even check if they looked alike. There was no hesitation. Just an instinctive act of kindness, of connection. A moment in which there is nothing pure or uncomplicated.
Milkshake clutched in my hand, I sat, frozen, watching.
I noticed the other boy’s mom coming out of the restroom then. I paused mid step and caught that moment too, so she did. Our eyes met. There were no words said between us just a mutual understanding. The smile that she gave had been tired but warm and she might have needed it as much as I needed it: something that honest.
At that moment, Nolan turned and confronted me with the now half full milkshake in his hand and said, with a shrug.
“We’re gonna make it through, right dad?”
He didn’t mean it metaphorically. When I asked him what he was talking about, he was only talking about his milkshake. That was the truth but the weight of it was heavier than I expected.
We can always share. Time. Patience. Space. Forgiveness. Joy.
Since that day I’ve thought a lot about that moment. About how we permeate our lives with walls which we build between what is ours and what is not, which we define and delimit and which we separate and accomodate. But kids? They start with none of that. Just open hearts and sticky fingers.
That day, Nolan taught me that the connection wasn’t about the words or the status it was earned. It just is. This occurs once we stop noticing the differences and holding out what we have (whether that’s a milkshake or moment) and say, this one is for both of us.
So I went to get a milkshake with my son thinking I was doing something for him.
It turned out that he was the one who was doing something for me.
Right there I always loved it when a child surprised you with unexpected wisdom.
