Blocks, Bottles, and Breakfast Blitz
The California sun wasn’t just rising. It was performing a slow, deliberate dance across the Santa Monica apartment, casting golden fingers of light that traced the contours of Mitchell’s world - a universe of possibility contained within four walls and endless imagination.
Paul wasn’t just a babysitter. He was a volleyball player. Every muscle in his body told a story of discipline, of precision, of countless hours spent perfecting the art of movement. His hands - the same hands that could send a volleyball sailing across a court with pinpoint accuracy - now carefully navigated the delicate landscape of Mitchell’s daily existence.
Mitchell wasn’t just a charge. He was a force of nature.
The playpen looked like a defensive zone Paul had carefully monitored through the night. Mitchell lay curled within, his stretched-out t-shirt riding up, revealing a pampers that had survived another night of Mitchell-style adventure. Each breath was a potential earthquake, each twitch a promise of imminent chaos.
The dream from earlier still lingered. Organic watermelons. Perfect. Ripe. Glistening with morning dew. A harvest that seemed more like a perfectly executed volleyball spike than a simple fruit purchase. But reality? Reality was far more interesting.
“Rise and shine, buddy,” Paul murmured, lifting Mitchell with the same careful precision he’d use positioning a teammate for the perfect block.
The high chair wasn’t just furniture. It was a throne. Industrial strength. Engineered to withstand the Mitchell hurricane that was about to make landfall.
Breakfast was a performance. An art form.
Organic oatmeal - sourced from a local farmer’s market just blocks from the beach. Cinnamon swirled in like a perfectly executed spin serve. Local honey that tasted of Santa Monica’s golden mornings. A whisper of vanilla that promised adventure.
Mitchell’s eyes were universes. Galaxies of pure, unfiltered excitement.
The warm milk bottle went down smooth. Each spoonful of oatmeal disappeared faster than a well-placed volleyball kill shot. Mitchell didn’t just eat. He celebrated food. Each bite was a festival. Each swallow a declaration of joy.
Morning cartoons became their ritual. The television flickered with cartoon characters, but Mitchell’s attention bounced between the screen and Paul - a constant dance of excitement that defied any known laws of concentration.
Fresh pampers. A clean slate. A new canvas for the day’s adventures.
Then came the blocks.
Massive wooden blocks transformed the living room into Mitchell’s personal kingdom. Each block a potential universe. Each stack a new adventure waiting to happen. Paul watched as Mitchell constructed worlds, destroyed them, rebuilt them - a creator and destroyer of miniature civilizations.
The ocean breeze drifted through the open window. Santa Monica stretched out beyond the apartment - a world of possibility as vast and unpredictable as Mitchell himself.
Paul’s volleyball-trained muscles relaxed. His athlete’s precision gave way to something softer. Something more important than any perfect serve or defensive play.
This wasn’t a competition. This was connection.
Takeaway: Some mornings are about perfect serves. Some are about perfect moments of pure, unfiltered joy. And some? Some are about watching a small universe come to life, one block at a time.