Karen Rivers

time makes you bolder, children get older.

Karen Rivers

"The beach," they said, "PLEASE."  

They so rarely say please that I caved and we went, even though it was cold and they still have coughs, terrible burbling chesty coughs that echo in the hollow caverns of their lungs.   But...

A walk to the beach after a week in the house, too much TV, too many video games?   

Fresh air?

Yes, please.

 

"I have all my energies back," declared The Bun, and he ran the whole way, spinning circles in the sand.   Dancing.  Boots on the wrong feet, of course.   There were a lot of dogs.  He is scared of dogs, mostly, but now that we're getting a dog, I can see him getting brave.    He patted a German Shepherd.   "It's a good dog," he said, uncertainly.   

(A big step.)

(We are taking lots of big steps right now.)

I kneel in the wet sand and take pictures of them, grabbing this moment and that one to save, just like I have a million times before -- although not lately, I stopped for a while, too many pictures piling up on the camera and not enough time to post them -- and later when I look through the shots, I see these big kids, their adult faces peering out behind the pudge of baby flesh, and I think, "When did this happen?"

We get to the end of the beach and start damming the river, but the energy shifts.

"This is the best day EVER," The Bun declares.

"No, it isn't," says The Birdy.

"Come on," I say.  "It's an adventure, remember?"

"But I don't have ENERGIES," says The Birdy, snippily.  "You didn't ask ME, if *I* had ENERGIES.  And I DON'T.   So we are GOING HOME."

"No!"  says The Bun.   

The Birdy cries.   I bribe The Bun to come with a cough candy and we slowly trudge back through the wet sand, hands freezing, tripping and falling and whining.   Oh, the whining.

But then there is a log!  A log!  And it's all forgotten.   

We can't leave now, after all.   So we'll stay.   Just for a little while longer.

I was looking for a Fleetwood Mac video to accompany this blog post and I found this.  I love it so much.   Chorus of voices?  Check.   KIDS' voices?  Check.   Crying?  MAYBE I AM.  

And if YOU aren't, then you're made of STONE, I tell you.  STONE.   Cold, hard, stone.

They grow up, you see.   And so do you.