The temperature hit 70, so we grabbed a picnic blanket and our sunnies and jetted out to the backyard. The thing about spring in the Midwest is that it waffles often between extremes: 55 one day, 85 the next. A sunny-and-70-degree day is a rarity, and it’s one worth celebrating.
But we spilled the container of graham crackers and Bernie stole Bee’s golf ball and oh, how the tears were shed. They flowed with fury until the golf ball was recovered and then – as quickly as they came – they disappeared. “Better,” she said.
These are the days, aren’t they? They’re ones full of surprise and adventure and mishaps, but gosh, we’re going to remember them with such strong, fragmented joy. Those chunky legs will slim and so will our memory, only to be replaced with tall limbs and taller tales. “She never cried,” and “She was the best baby ever” and “Gracious, those days were just so simple.”
And they were. They are. They’re simple, but hard. They’re full of emotion, void of reason. But they’re good. They’re so, so, so good.
There are days I wish I could curl up on the couch and watch TV, but a tiny hand beckons me to open the Play-Doh and make snakes with her. And I do, reluctantly at first, until I picture myself twenty years from now. I’ll be curled up on the couch, watching TV, wanting nothing more than to make clay reptiles with the one I love.
And so today, snakes it is.
p.s. Speaking of snakes, charming baskets.