Last night Baby A and I went for a walk at my favorite time of day. Dusk. There was a slight chill in the air. Sky dusted with pink. I found a green branch on the ground and handed it to him. He said whoa.

Whoa is maybe his eighth word. And he said it a lot yesterday. Whoa to the sky. Whoa to the stairs. Whoa to the bougainvillea. Whoa to it all, really.

His almost two year-old pace is quick and pretty clumsy. His penchant for both “whoa” and running toward a curb full speed ahead kept me so alert, so present. My little teacher, who came to us at six days old from foster care, and by complete and utter grace, is home with us. Opening my eyes to what I was missing out on.

A walk around the neighborhood, a neighborhood we often complain about because of the highway and traffic, became a wonderland of whoa. And like Shauna Niequist writes: I want a life that sizzles and pops and makes me laugh out loud.

Guys, I want more whoa.

Mary Beth LaRue