I am a somewhat reflective person; I can think about any one thing to such extent and time that it borders on excess. This can be a handicap, though. I spend way too much time thinking about just one (usually unimportant) matter when there are other things I should be devoting myself to. Then, there are the details: I'm way too attuned to details, and other small things, like dates, numbers, sounds smells-- the list is a mile long.

Having this capacity for "details" is good and bad. It's great when some one is trying to remember "something", I can usually recall the person's name, the book or the author. The bad part is that I re-live these details so much in mind that the slightest thing can bring up painful or sad memories that I really do not care to remember. For example, I pick up a book and start reading. I get farther and farther into the book and start getting into the story, but something is wrong. The characters, the converstions, all remind me of something sad. Then, I remember: maybe I was reading this book the time I was really sick, or when my aunt died. Every word in this book brings back every thought and feeling of those times--how everything felt in my life right then, and everything falls down around me. Consequently, I start having a rough time and have to wrestle with my own mind, so I can bring myself back.

It was during one of those "rough" times (I had alot of those last year) that I came to love and appreciate my littlest brother even more and realized the magic of being three.
The evening was particularly difficult for me and it was hard for me to concentrate or be loving and happy or joyful.

Little Man, as I love to call my wee brother, came running after me as I was walking to the kitchen, begging for a piece of sugar toast. As he waited for the bread to toast, he jumped around, chattered and played with some cars he had scattered on the floor earlier. I stood watching him, nearly crying and envying his happiness, innocence and carefree attitude. He knows nothing of the sorrows or trial of life, none of the pain or heartaches, nor the hard path that comes with being a Christian, especially a Catholic one. I finally scooped Little Man up and hugged and kissed him, amid some squirming and protests (after all, three-year-olds don't go much for "mushy stuff" anymore).
I whispered, "Oh, I wish I was three again, and didn't have anything to worry about." He looked at me strangely.
"Why are you sad, Nanda?"
"Just because," I answered. That was good enough for him and he wiggled down and ran away with his toast.

Ahh, three-year-olds. At that moment I longed to be right there with Little Man, playing and having a wonderful time, 'cause after all, when you're three, the world looks pretty good with nothing bad in it at all.
When you're three, all you have to worry about is playing hard and having fun. There are no horrible problems or major sorrows.
The worst thing might be getting yelled at, or told "NO", or maybe being spanked. Tears will come, but they quickly vanish and you're as happy as before.

If you get grumpy or whiney when you're three, chances are you just need a few stories and a long nap. If there is any cross at all in your life, it's eating. While you adore snacks and sweets, dinner and other "real" meals look disgusting and awful.
Yes, when you are three, life is just about perfect; you are blissfully unaware of many things and revel in your position as the cute toddler--the most adored person in the family. A three year old has one very important job, though: to bring joy and love and happiness to their family. I think that they know this instinctively sometimes and often surprise you with moments of affection just when you need it the most.

How can you not be happy when that little boy follows you everywhere, doing everything you do, and insisting on it, too. He wants stories and games from you and even wants to sit next to you at the supper table.

Although I still envy a three-year-old, I have realized that I can still have a little innocence and joy through my brother, and have all the fun with him. That little guy puts a smile on my face no matter what and knows just how to cheer me up.
This is the little boy who puts on his Superman pajamas and flys around the house with a dishtowel cape and a mask made by one of his sisters. He tears through the rooms, pretending to be Superman, all the while yelling, "Guys, say, 'Here comes Superman, with feet of lightening and faster than a speeding bullet!' "

This is also the little boy, who, after seeing 'Cinderella' pretended that he was "Cinderella's baby" and that I was "Cinderella"; it's rather flattering to be called that!

Yesterday afternoon I was lying on bed, feeling rather sad and alone. Little Man crept in crawled on the bed and snuggled next to me. He kissed me, throwing his small arms around my neck.
"I love you," he whispered, then, seeing my face, "Nanda, don't be sad. Just be happy! Just smile and your tears will go away."

This is for JoJo: my Little Man, my sunshine and my delight!