After a long day of work, when emails blur into one another and tasks pile up quicker than they get ticked off, the only thing that brings me back to life is time spent with my daughter and husband. It doesn’t have to be anything big or extravagant — just small things that remind us how full life already is. Today was one of those perfect little evenings.
After work, we decided not to stay in. Instead, we took a short drive — just about eight kilometers — to another town nearby. It was a spontaneous decision, really. The weather was really nice — clear skies and sunshine — but the air was still cold, that kind of crispness that wakes you up a little, and our energy wasn’t completely drained, so we thought, why not wander somewhere new? We didn’t have a plan, but sometimes the best moments come when you don’t plan a thing.
There’s something about seeing the world through our daughter’s eyes that resets everything. She’s at that curious, fearless stage where everything she sees is a new adventure, something to touch, climb on, figure out. We came across a playground, and it had one of those spring-mounted animals to ride. This one was a horse, carved from wood and securely anchored on a spring. She knew exactly what to do. She climbed up confidently, grabbed the handles, and began to bounce — not too fast, just enough to make her giggle. We stood nearby, not needing to say much. Just watching her enjoy that moment felt like the world slowing down.
She amazes me every day. She’s growing so quickly, learning at a pace I can barely keep up with. Watching her figure out how to balance herself on the wooden horse, how to control the movement, how to squeal in just the right way to make us laugh — it’s these little pieces of her personality that shine through in the simplest places. Playgrounds aren’t just for fun. They’re places where she experiments, where her independence quietly grows, and where we get to witness her becoming herself.
After some time, hunger started whispering, then talking louder. We agreed to find a place to eat. Not far from the playground, we spotted a small Vietnamese Imbiss. It wasn’t fancy — more of a cozy, casual spot where you order at the counter — but it had a warm, welcoming atmosphere. The smell of ginger, garlic, and lemongrass floated out even before we stepped inside, and it felt just right after a chilly walk.
I ordered “Rindfleisch nach Szechuan Art mit Gemüse und Knoblauch” — beef Szechuan-style with vegetables and garlic. It arrived on a clean white plate, the rice shaped into a perfect dome next to a colorful stir-fry mix. The beef was tender, coated in a rich, slightly spicy sauce that clung to the vegetables in just the right way. There were chunks of carrots, bright red peppers, cauliflower, onions, and a bit of char that gave it a smoky edge. Every bite was warm, flavorful, and comforting.
My husband went for chicken curry — creamy, rich, and full of the kind of spices that warm you from the inside. Our daughter had noodles with vegetables, which she enjoyed with that innocent enthusiasm only toddlers can muster. She twirled the noodles, picked out pieces she liked, and occasionally handed us tiny offerings from her plate like she was sharing treasure.
But what truly captured her heart wasn’t the food — it was the aquarium. Right there in the Imbiss, near our table, was a medium-sized tank with ten fish swimming around lazily. They weren’t particularly exotic, but to her, they were the most exciting thing in the world. She gave them identities — “baby,” “mommy,” “daddy,” “oma,” and “opa.” She kept track of who was who, pointed them out, tapped the glass gently, and narrated their movements like a storyteller. We let her lead the show, responding to her excitement with smiles and questions. That tank became her playground, her little slice of magic.
We lingered at the table, full and relaxed. There’s something deeply satisfying about sharing a good meal with your family, where the food becomes part of the memory but not the whole of it. The atmosphere, the laughter, and the quiet moments — those are what stay with you.
After dinner, we didn’t rush home. Instead, we walked back to the playground. The light had softened, the town quieted, and the air was just cool enough to be refreshing. She ran ahead, back to her horse, bouncing again as if she hadn’t just played on it an hour ago. We followed slowly, talking quietly, enjoying that sense of peace that settles in after a day well spent.
Eventually, we drove home. She was quiet in the back seat, not asleep but drifting. We knew she’d fall asleep easily tonight, tired from running and full from eating. And we were tired, too — but not in the same way. This was the good kind of tired. The kind that comes from doing something meaningful, however small it might seem.
Working full time is no small thing. It stretches you, sometimes wears you down. But making space for these moments, showing up for them, even when you’re tired — that’s what matters. We want her to know she has our attention, that she’s not waiting on the sidelines while we’re busy. We’re here. We’re with her. Not just physically, but fully.
Evenings like this remind me that joy is often quiet. It doesn’t shout or sparkle all the time. Sometimes, it’s just a shared laugh, a bouncing horse, a plate of noodles, or a fish named “opa” in a tank. And in those things, we find everything we really need.
