I use the term "walk" loosely because with a toddler who refuses to ride in a stroller leading the charge, we could measure our progress better in inches rather than in yards. Our walks are more gentle meanders than ambitious calorie burning affairs.

The day, however, was custom-made for moseying, with its crystal blue skies and warm breezes. And everything was correspondingly fresh and exciting for the toddler. A red fire hydrant with white spots! A fish fluttering from a tree branch! An orange city bus! A pink string!

We note the house on the corner that is still spreading Christmas joy through its wreaths and twinkling lights. We point out to each other the abandoned basketball and the funny sticker on a car. The state-of-the-neighborhood walk is merely a time to appreciate what is around us and to observe what is new.

A lot could be made of my son's ability to appreciate the minutiae and to take delight in the insignificant. More telling, I think, is how I or another adult responds to the challenge of being forced to acknowledge every single stray candy wrapper or crooked stick that is encountered. Tolerance? Annoyance? Indulgence? I've cycled through each of these emotions, and I now realize that I cope through a revision of expectations, or maybe a complete reduction of expectations. I no longer expect to be an accomplished person. As much as I might wish it weren't so, this walk that we are on, for instance, will never culminate at the neighborhood cafe for a cup of tea.

In my day-to-day life as a stay-at-home mom, I am happiest when I accept that I shouldn't expect to get anything done. If the kids' naptimes overlap and I am able to mop the floor or e-mail my sister, it's just an unforeseen bonus. My to-do list has stagnated with New Year's, and I will eventually just toss the sticky note on my wall because of its utter irrelevancy.

Once you enter this state of not minding being unaccomplished, miraculous things start to occur. Instead of beating yourself up over the fact that your yard is a bed of weeds and your shrubs have sprouted antennae, you cheer on your neighbor's daffodils and surreptitiously let your child roll around in their lush carpet of grass.

If you ask me what I've been up to, I'm thoroughly stumped. My days are a whirl of activity, but precious little gets accomplished in the concrete, quantifiable sense. And I'm fine with it; I happily tread the water.

Along with this reduction of expectations, I realize that I simply no longer expect the exceptional to occur. When I was younger, I harbored this romanticized view of life where excitement and adventure were a birthright or, at the very least, should be actively pursued. My life trajectory, however, has not included stops in the glamorous hot spots of the world. I do not rub shoulders with the rich and famous. The unexceptional yet surprising things create a great stir in my life now. The neighbor's cat jumping into the driver's seat of our car. The cobweb that is dancing in the shower stall. The tiny details are the things that disrupt our routines and cause the slow ripples of delight throughout our lives.

I wish I could say that I was consciously "stopping to smell the roses," but I'm not. Many days I curse the monotony and tedium of caring for two small children in a world that seems to encourage novelty, pleasure and achievement. But walking down the street on our state-of-the-neighborhood walk with delivery trucks rumbling by and so many shiny rocks to pick up reminds me of all the truly exceptional things that are going on right underneath my nose.