When Spaghetti Makes You Cry (and Not Because of the Oven)
When Spaghetti Makes You Cry (and Not Because of the Oven)
Today? Rough.
I’m trying to launch Little Wins with Jimmy — a project that means the world to me — but snag after snag has tested every ounce of my patience. I’ve been short-tempered, annoyed, and teetering on the edge of burn-it-all-down mode. It’s hot. I’m hot. The oven’s on because we’re having spaghetti and cheesy garlic bread, and honestly? I don’t want to be in the kitchen.
I want to be working. I want to be building the thing I believe in. I want to feel like something is going right.
But instead, I’m boiling noodles.
I dish out Jimmy’s bowl — spaghetti, cut small the way he likes it. I set it in front of him like we always do, because we don’t use words for instructions in our house. Words aren’t how we guide Jimmy. We show. We wait. We hope.
And then it happens.
He climbs up to his seat. Grabs his favorite fancy fork. Digs right into the bowl — no hesitation — and brings a forkful of cut spaghetti straight to his mouth.
Straight to his mouth.
He eats it.
Just like that.
No prompting. No hand-over-hand. No cheering section.
It was quiet. Effortless. Natural.
And it shattered me.
Jimmy’s first bite of spaghetti — all by himself.
We’ve worked on this skill for years . Tiny steps forward, long pauses, weeks of “not today.” Jimmy doesn’t like being watched when he’s learning, so I’ve gotten good at pretending I’m not watching — head down, eyes straining sideways.
But… I saw it.
I turned toward my husband, trying to stay casual, and he noticed the tears before I even realized they’d started. Silent. Steady. Soaked in something bigger than pride.
Because that bite of spaghetti? It was everything.
It was motor planning. It was independence. It was growth and grit and grace and a quiet little “I’ve got this, Mom” from a boy who doesn’t use words but speaks volumes.
In that one motion, he reminded me why I do any of it. Why I push through long days, hot kitchens, and tech meltdowns. Why I keep going when it feels like nothing’s working.
Because he is.
Little by little, on his own terms, in his own time — he is.
And tonight, spaghetti was the victory.
My heart was so full of pride, it spilled out my eyes and into my garlic bread. Worth it.
Here’s to the little wins. The quiet milestones. The ordinary moments that hold the entire universe for a parent like me.
Especially when they’re served with a side of spaghetti.
Have you ever cried over a “little win”?
I’d love to hear your moment. Share it in the comments or pass this post on to someone who understands just how big the “small stuff” really is.
