I was working in the garage this morning, and I saw a little mouse scurry across the floor. In the old days, before our current adventure in which my heart is being softened toward rodents, I would have jumped up on a stool and screamed and thrown things.
But I'll be darned if I didn't follow the little guy. I even thought his squeaks were cute. There was no screaming, no adrenaline rushes of terror. I mean, I didn't feel tempted to touch it, but at least I didn't want to whack it with a shovel.
I'm growing as a person, y'all.
It's the little things.