I watched his tiny body jump up and down with sheer, unadulterated happiness

T

oday, I go to sleep consciously regretting something I’ve done. It’s the type of regret that physically sears at my heart. It demands that I be smarter next time, that I break out of my comfort zone.

It happened this afternoon.

He was a few steps ahead of me — a little boy of two, curls framing his cherubic face. He waited with the half-patience of a toddler behind his mommy as she maneuvered the baby’s stroller into the mall. He spotted the escalators immediately, and his eyes widened in amazement, jaw dropping as he watched its rhythmic motion.

He started jumping exuberantly. “Mommy, I wanna go on that!”

“On what?”

“That.” He pointed fiercely, willing her to understand what he was talking about, though he clearly didn’t know himself.

“You want to go up on the escalator?”

His head bobbed up and down eagerly. She shook her head. “That would be really nice, but the baby’s stroller can’t possibly be schlepped up that,” she explained patiently, proceeding toward the elevators.