In the eye of the beholder

I don't do the chicken chores in the winter - usually - but sometimes Joe just needs to relax after school. (Since i'm a super-compassionate wife, i sensed this need and told him i'd feed the flock that night. Stay warm, honey. Sit down with a cup of coffee and consider yourself off-duty. Oh, wait. Here's the baby. Thomas is downstairs. Rosemarie is probably eating crayons. I'll be back in 15.)

Getting the chance to be alone and out of the house - i mean, er, getting the chance to lug around water and chicken feed - was actually quite nice, despite the biting winds and the ugly get-up i was wearing. I don't consider a black snow cap, the husband's tattered flannel coat, and over-sized rubber boots to be the hottest thing i've ever worn.

But some people, yet unscarred by pop-culture or sin, can gaze beyond the attire and into the beauty of actions. One of those people is my 4 year old son, Thomas. When i came back in the house, red-faced and drippy-nosed from the cold wind and clad in frumpy work clothes, Thomas took one look at me and ran away into the living room. He didn't flee in disgust or disinterestedness. No, he ran as quickly as his chubby legs would carry him so he could share something great with his infant brother. Over my sniffles, i could hear him whispering excitedly,

"Leopold! You wouldn't believe how beauuuuuuuuuutiful Mama looks!"