They looked so sweet banging together matchbox cars and making a loud ruckus that not all the shushing in the world could keep quiet. But I only glanced up in between words from the game on my phone. Mat, head, sad, man, bed. Oh, look, I got honey. I’m pretty pathetic for a writer and a holder of a bachelor degree in English. Then the murmur of how those loud boys should leave the room because she can’t hear anything, which might have more to do with her seventy-four year old ears than the loudness of the boys. It seemed unfair to me because where would they go. They want to go outside, but they can’t go alone because there’s an ungated pool out there and Evan still had a minor issue with dogs even if this one had one foot in the grave and the other on the banana peel, which meant she worried more about that than playing with some puppies, even if they played her favorite game of soccer. Go ask your-.
What am I doing? I’m their mother. They’re my boys. They will only be this age once, and one day they won’t ask me to play with them. They won’t want me to play with them. How will I feel then? How will i feel when I look back and see that a stupid video game was more important? What will they remember? Today they want ME to play with them. They want ME to go outside with them. Besides don’t I need to lose a few pounds, get some fresh air, teach them to kick a ball correctly because I forgot to sign them up for sports class again.
Come on, guys. Grab the ball. Put on your shoes. We have rosebuds to gather as we may.
We danced outside, chasing the ball, kicking the ball, dodging the ball. We ran, jumped, hopped, walked. I tackled Evan to give Sean a chance, teaching him to take turns as I tickled him without mercy. I taught them to ring around a rosey and to find shapes in the clouds. They figured out it was hilarious to watch Mommy try to get a ball out of a pool without a net.
I didn’t care if I missed my game or that no one else joined us. They were my boys, and I wouldn’t miss this for the world.