The other night, as I left for a city council meeting, Ian stopped me at the door. He reached his hand toward me, offering a black-and-white hacky-sack.
‘Wait! Maybe the ball you need?’ (Yoda would be proud.)
‘Hmm. You think I might need that ball?’
He tiled his head and nodded, a concerned look on his face. ‘Yeah. You need it. For the meeting!’
‘Ooookay. Thanks!’ We hugged, and I walked to City Hall, playing catch with myself.
I don’t like meetings. Jared and meetings…kinda clash. Too much time is spent saying too little, and I’d rather make a decision and get on with my life. But that leads to poor decisions, so I sit, and I discuss.
About halfway through the meeting, I started squeezing the ball. Then rolling it around the desk. Then tossing it into the air. I was listening intently to the meeting, but the three-year-old within me—feet tapping, legs twitching, butt squirming to leave his seat—was completely and happily distracted by that stupid, little ball.
That ball is now in a drawer, next to my notebook, and will be coming to every meeting.
Kelly told me that, after I’d left that night, Ian came and told her what’d happened. ‘Daddy took the ball.’
‘He did? Why?’
‘Yeah. He needs to play at the meeting!’
Perception is everything.