Mondays are a very special day here at Casa de Mitchell. Aidan, who almost never wakes up with a case of the Mondays, springs from his bed every Monday eagerly awaiting the fleet of trucks that will soon invade our neighborhood and abscond with our garbage.
It never seems to get less exciting for him, either. These big blue trucks come rumbling up the block laden with refuse and apparently that is the height of thrilling excitement for a two year old little boy. Wes comes careening down the stairs screaming, “Trucks! TRUCKS!” and then whisks Aidan away to the upstairs window with the best view of the street. There, they stand and watch the truck first go up the street, then back down. It’s an important rite around here.
The weather was nice this morning so I decided to bundle myself and my tiny human so we could go truck hunting. Aidan’s tiny shoes hit the pavement and we struck out, eager to hear the rumble of big engines.
As luck would have it, the recycling truck was right around the corner and we were off! Aidan chased that truck around our block twice, little arms flailed out to either side for balance as he ran to keep up.
Every time the truck driver came within sight, the driver honked the truck’s big horn, smiling and waving to my little son, who stood in abject wonder of the great behemoth with the benevolent driver.
That truck driver really endeared himself to me. There’s just something so unnecessarily nice about a stranger who takes the time to brighten your kid’s day. That guy doesn’t know Aidan, but he still had a smile and a wave to spare my truck-besotten son, and that means a lot to me.
Apathy is kind of a state-sponsored sport here in good ol’ Washington, which makes voluntary caring both noteworthy and appreciated, I think.