pump it up

Spring served up some seriously wet and muddy weather over the weekend, and though it struck dull, domesticated me as a nice opportunity to make tea and stay indoors, it held a special appeal for the kids. They played hard together all yesterday, with only a few meltdowns requiring parental intervention. When they were ready for a walk, it was with our friend Fawn. I took a short jog and found them wading with her and a sweet pair of neighbor kids in the muddy creek at the end of our street, pleasantly dirty and wet and decidedly unwilling to follow me home.

Believe me, the sibling solidarity and independence was awfully nice. It allowed not only a jog but some solitary time in the garden, planting seeds and whacking fence posts into place without the worry of small fingers in the vicinity of the mallet. 

But can you believe I started to miss them a little? I did. So when Gabriel wandered over to the garden in the late afternoon and asked for a push, I quickly covered up the exposed radish seeds and let my feet lead me lightly to the swing set. An earnest Gabriel watched my too-eager approach, explaining that he was practicing pumping but still needed help getting started. Truth is, a once hum-drum obligation has become a rare pleasure for this mother of big kids. The boy can tell. He was trying to warn me not to get too excited.

 

See how good I am at pumping already, Mama?

I grinned back at him.

When I'm four...

I waited. I silently finished his thought: When he's four, he won't need a starter push. When he's four, he'll pump even better.

When I'm four, I'll pump so high I'll kick the moon.

 

The bravado! The pleasures of anticipatory achievement! I could learn a lesson from this small person who will turn four in eleven short days. 

I am perhaps - maybe - possibly - on the cusp of a new era professionally. All the hard parts of making a change are clamoring for my attention just now. But I might benefit from spending time imagining what it will feel like when my toes brush past the moon's dusty, glowing surface instead.

Though Gabriel's bravado is easily punctured. He hates--bitterly--to be wrong, to be vulnerable, to not know something that the rest of us know. I can relate. It's so hard to be little.

But yesterday he was astute enough to recognize, after much vigorous and moderately effective pumping, when he needed help. So he asked, and we enjoyed pushing and being pushed for a good long time.

 

Not four yet, kiddo.