A colleague and I were recently laughing about how enviously we watch as a mutual friend gallivants through life without children. The travel to remote and beautiful places! The indulgent, involved meals! The copious hobbies and “because I can” experiences like snowmobiling to and from Mackinac Island when Lake Huron freezes over!

I feigned defensiveness of our life’s choices: okay fine, but can he tell you which playground has the best shade cover for a sunny summer day? Where all of the tornado sirens are within a 10 mile radius of his home? How many of the trucks at the local fire station are red and how many are yellow? Because I can!

Jokes aside, one of my favorite unexpected side effects of having kids is that they cause you to slow down and appreciate the vibrancy and color of life happening right beside you. The “stop and smell the roses” life philosophy was probably penned by someone whose child brought them a dandelion bouquet on every walk they took around their home.

Today, for instance, A and I were on our weekly grocery run which involves him making key selections in our cart (always the car cart), cereal (sometimes Kix, sometimes Wheaties), and yogurt (doesn’t matter the flavor, just clear out the inventory). Heading into the store through the parking lot today, his hand clasped in mine and walking about a half pace behind me, he gently pulled me to stop so we could admire something.

“That is such a beautiful shape, Mom!”

“What?” I asked, looking inquisitively at my son.

“That’s such a beautiful shape!”

“Such a beautiful… what?” I scanned the sky for… a sail? A plane? A bird? I looked at the nearby cars: any standout colors or silhouettes?

“Right there,” he pointed down at the pavement.

A patchwork in a parking lot, creating a near-perfect square. I’ve probably walked over this square a hundred times and never noticed, but to my 3-year-old son learning his shapes, it is remarkable in the dictionary definition of the word: worthy of attention.

I couldn’t help myself snapping a picture, and we loitered near this “beautiful shape,” chatting about squares for another 15 seconds before continuing on our way.

There is no moral imperative implicit in this anecdote. This is not to say that snowmobiling across a massive body of frozen water is better or worse than knowing the precise number of hydrangea blooms in your corner shrub (it’s just 5, and they are fading fast as we enter the late summer).

Rather, this is a testament to the wonder and beauty of the world both near and far.

If you ever find yourself unable to see things in that way, just find a small child to borrow for an outing and pay attention to the way your everyday becomes extraordinary.

Suffice it to say, I will probably never look at my grocery store’s parking lot the same way again.

Related: different son, same fandom for (literally) every day occurrences // other simple joys.