Picture if you will, gentle readers, two children of the ages 3 ½ and 19 months. The big sister has soft blond ringlets of hair framing her sweet face. A Disney princess bow pins the tresses from her eyes. The baby boy, not so much a baby anymore, has dark curls of his own surrounding his cherub face. His large, bright brown eyes are a reflection of his mother’s.
My, aren’t they lovely. See them sitting together, rocking back and forth. Their hands are entwined around the same McDonald’s happy meal toy as they tug to and fro. The boy makes shockingly high pitched harpy screeches. The girl, equally bewildering, expels guttural utterances that ought not be possible, as she vies for control of the…what the fuck is that anyway? An insect?
Scattered around them are 98,903,240,438 other toys, all dedicated to the soul purpose of satisfying their undying need for stimulus. Yet, it is this bug thingy that holds them in a fight to the end, or (with all attempts at distraction thwarted) until I finally lose my patience and bark at them in a “HEY!!! CUT THAT OUT!!!” manner. This scene has been brought to you today by the depths of winter. Spring, with summer just around the corner, provides us with a much preferable alternative.
All one need do is hold up a bottle of Banana Boat Baby Sunscreen, and somewhere in the near distance a Pavlovian bell rings, as my children drop everything and run to me with the knowledge of the outdoor frolicking to come.
I love this time we spend together. Well, not so much the amount of time I spend keeping my children from running out into the street, into slow but still oncoming traffic. I could also do without the time spent arbitrating the use of one ball amongst the many that they have at their disposal (10), because for whatever reason they both want THAT ball.
It’s the walks we take that I really love. We stroll through our neighborhood, pausing to look at every fire hydrant, basketball hoop, bird, and storm drain. We laugh and sing and say hello to neighbors who have also emerged from their cocoons, busily tending to yard work and playing with their young.
Yesterday we passed an older gentleman, peacefully reading a book on his front porch. My daughter, the budding social butterfly that she is, stopped first to gawk, but then to talk to him to ask what he was doing. What is this strange activity? Why would adults read to themselves? Where are the other children to whom he should be reading? I did my best to explain that the man was enjoying some quiet time, and after a quick conversation about how he has hanging flower baskets just like ours on his porch, we made our way.
But I couldn’t help myself and looked back a little longingly. I remember the days when I would spend a lazy Sunday, sitting out in the shade reading quietly, enjoying the sounds and smells of spring as I immersed myself into a story. The thought was fleeting; as I looked back to my little family, holding hands as we walked down our street, I knew this shared stroll was a perfect way to spend such a beautiful spring day.
