Back atcha

What is it that they say about the mouths of babes? Now that Cleo's speaking confidently (and constantly), we're often surprised at the raw truth contained in some of her utterances. Take, for instance, this evening, when - after teaching a three-hour class and watching Cleo for 6 hours - I managed to scrape up enough energy to go for a quick jog. Up Falls Road, across the interstate, and up to the Mount Washington playground for a few pullups and pushups, before trotting back home - where an apparently admiring Cleo looked at me and said, enthusiastically, 'Daddy went for a tiny run!'

Well, okay, Cleo: you're right. I'm no Prefontaine. But, still, a prideful part of me wants to point out that I did run farther, this evening, than you've run in the entire course of your little life. But that's hardly the point, of course - after all, it's you who's constantly teaching me that tiny can be beautiful, in its own way. In your own tiny compositions - little fragments of sentences, and hints of melodies - I consistently find both grace and inspiration, as was the case with this on-the-spot song about the meadow that we played in this afternoon:

So, yeah, Daddy went for a tiny run. And Cleo sang a tiny song. And tiny worked for both of us.