How my toddler reawakened my sense of wonder

Caring for a toddler can be like using a VHS tape: Wake up, eat, play, sleep; rewind, repeat. My days blur together as I try to occupy my 18-month-old son for more than two minutes. To try to spice things up, I bought a membership to the New England Aquarium in Boston. That decision proved to be a turning point. 

The first time we went was a disaster. We battled hordes of fussy babies, grouchy children, and frazzled parents on a crowded weekend afternoon. One of us ended up close to tears: me. Determined to redeem our trip and my investment, I tried again – on a weekday this time. If my hunch was correct, the place would still be busy, but we’d have room to breathe – and wouldn’t have to throw any elbows to get a peek at the octopus. 

So I crammed everything I could into the diaper bag and loaded up the bottom of the stroller with water bottles, snacks, and emergency toys. I strapped my little guy into his stroller, attached his “adventure pacifier” to his onesie, and off we went. 

This time, when we get to the aquarium, I’m relieved to find that I am correct. The lights are dim, a few couples meander past, and a group of kids on a field trip is being shepherded around. As we pass the penguins on our way to the exhibits, a flash of color catches my eye. I turn the stroller and head to a part of the aquarium I’d missed the previous time. A nearly floor-to-ceiling tank fills one section of wall. Inside it are hundreds of tropical fish of every shape and color I can imagine. Some dart around playfully, while others slowly patrol the bottom. I smile and crouch down by my son to point them out. 

But there’s no need: He’s transfixed. His eyes are open wide, following the movements of the fish. His little jaw has dropped; the corners of his mouth are turned up. My breath stops, and I feel my throat tighten. The look of wonder on his face is so raw, so pure. I’m speechless. 

I turn back to the fish tank and let myself get lost in the wild array of color. It is like seeing the fish for the first time: yellow fish, brighter than the sun; the sharp contrast of the clownfish’s stripes; the slow fanning of their fins, floating and twirling in the water. This beauty had always been there, but my rush to do and see more had prevented me from seeing and experiencing anything at all. 

We watched the fish. We let the wonder of their color, movement, and form fill the space. When we finally moved on, I consciously slowed down and looked at my son at each exhibit, trying to see through his eyes. His wonder had transformed my experience. His being so in tune with his surroundings had alerted me to do the same. What else had I been missing?  

Since that day at the aquarium, I’ve taken more cues from my son as we navigate our days. And while they still contain cycles of chores and tasks, there’s also a new awareness of nuance and complexity on my part. I have a choice, I see now. I can let routine, worry, and self-absorbed thinking sink my day into drudgery and unease. Or I can choose to look at the world differently. I can pursue beauty and awe. Rather than simply doing “play, rewind, repeat,” I can strive to realize all the joy to be found in pressing “pause” and taking in the moment.

I used to feel I had to reserve awe and wonder for big things, like the northern lights or a vacation sunset or one of the world’s many architectural majesties. But in doing that, I was missing the small things that make life extraordinary: How joyful it is to hear someone laugh; the delight (and terror) of a goat eating from the palm of your hand; picking a flower from the side of the road and noticing how perfect each petal is. Each time I see my son’s face light up at these tiny wonders, I feel a part of me soften. I remember that there is so much good in the world, if I only allow myself to see it.