I’m surrounded by small things. Small hands, small dogs, small toys, small fingernails. Small, untidy blankets and small voices and small toes that fit in shoes smaller than my fist. As a mother I often feel, ironically, bowled-over by the collective “small.” But it’s alright; I like it.

Google tends to agree with me. When I hunt the web for anecdotes, the search box finishes my “quotes about small things that…” with things like “matter,” “count,” “change the world,” and “make you happy.”

I sit one day on my couch, scratching the soft, flabby spot behind my jack russell terrier’s ears, my Texan house quiet and still. My two little girls will be home from school soon, and while I’m savoring the few moments of peace after a long day of cleaning, organizing, and yard work, I also catch the anticipation growing inside me. We are a family of sticky hands and loud laughter and chocolate smeared chins, of tickles and giggles and screams of horror when a foot is speared by the sharp plastic hand of a discarded Barbie doll or princess crown. In short, noise has become a permanent roommate.

They come in a storm. The bell rings with the urgency of a tornado siren: banging on the door and yelling from the porch as they bounce on their toes and jam their faces up against the side window. It seems we repeat this every day. Eventually they realized it’s unlocked, and before I can make it down the foyer, they’re inside, grinning madly. My wiry six year old jumps into my arms with the typical happy cry of “Momma!” and then is off to find a snack. My 3 year old doesn’t rush me, but strolls in slowly, dramatically, a conspiratorial look on her face.

She stops in front of me, beaming, then throws her arms out to each side and wiggles her hips and torso in exaggerated circles, keeping her eyes locked on mine.

“Momma!” comes her exuberant cry as she sticks her hips out forward, “Look at me! I’m wearing a new jumpsuit!”

This is declared with the same gusto of announcing she’s just won the lottery, or discovered the cure for cancer, or got engaged. I’m a rapt audience, as enthralled as she is by the new, soft cotton, the golden flowers printed on the fabric, and the way the ruffles twirl and bounce around her knees as she shows it off. I hardly get to gush my admiration before she flurries off to join her sister for sustenance (“No candy!” I manage to shout through my laughter).

Maybe Google and I are convinced of the magnitude of small things because of their inherent purity. Not all small things, mind you, but it seems reasonable that the smaller things are, the less chance they’ve had to expand and gather the hard things of this world into them. You’d agree with me in this particular instance if you’d been as lucky as I was to see innocent, perfect joy shining in the little eyes of my toddler. Over something as small as how a dress made her feel.

I think small things can do all those things Google says because they make the big things matter. My adult “bigness”. My big, complicated life, work, relationships, struggles, bills, health . . . things that could capsize me at any given moment, all of it matters because of my small things. All the small things I’m lucky to be surrounded by.