Sprinkler Rainbows and Cottonwood Fluff
I stood at the kitchen table and announced plans for next week, which included a day trip to Salt Lake and a swim day. The older two kids nodded, but the reaction from the younger two kids was to lament that we did not go swimming this week. It was the first week of summer and I’d promised we could go swimming once per week, but we had not yet actually gone.
I felt frustration and anger with their reaction. I spent the whole week a a dead run, scrambling to adapt to a new life rhythm while still getting all the business work and the family stuff done. At the end of that crazy week, I finally had a feel for what was working and what was not. Part of what was not working was finding time to fulfill my commitments to summer activities. Hence my announcement, making sure the kid stuff got onto next weeks schedule before anything else.
The perspective of the kids was different. They burst into the summer of freedom, eager for the adventures to come. Instead they were answered with a seemingly endless stream of “I need to think about that” and “Not today.” So they began to wonder if any of the promises will materialize or if it is all just a mirage. In their ears “next week” sounds remarkably like “never.”
I stood, frustrated, as my kids filled the air with “what about this? Can we do this today?” I closed my eyes, trying to hang on to calm. Trying to see their perspective around the edges of mine. Knowing that it falls upon me to keep my cool even when they are unreasonable in their requests. At 6 pm on a Saturday it is in not fair to throw a tantrum because I won’t immediately pack up and take them to a swimming pool, but kids do not check their desires for fairness before asking. Then Gleek’s lament passed over the fact that I had not yet taken her to the school playground so that she can show me her recess tricks. It was a small outing, small enough to fit into the hours of remaining daylight. My evening was clear. So I said the words the kids had been longing to hear all week. “Yes. Let’s go.”
In the end only Gleek and Patch went with me. An elementary school playground was not all that attractive to them and they were content to wait for the larger activities next week. For two hours Gleek showed me her tricks. Patch Demonstrated his monkey-bar skills. The sprinklers came on and the kids got soaked chasing rainbows in the spray. Then they dried out while catching cottonwood fluff from the air. Each running step sent whirls of fluff up off the grass to fly again. The grass itself looked as if a few clouds had spread out for a summer afternoon nap. Cottonwoods are not popular trees anymore, exactly because of this fluff,. In fact the school yard used to have dozens of them, but they were cut down several years ago. I was glad to find this one remaining at the edge of the field. I sat on the cotton fluff frosted grass and watched my children.
They were joyful, completely occupied by each activity. That complete immersion in NOW is something I need to find in myself more often. I’ve realized it before and I’m sure I’ll realize it again, because I spend much of my life observing rather than participating. I love observation and thinking, but there art times when I need to get myself out of the house to go chase fluff in the air.
The return home had some crankiness. I had to scold when they did not listen. That was unpleasant and the knowledge that it is likely, often keeps me from wanting to go out. I don’t like to discipline my children in public. But a day later, I remember the beauty of the sprinkler rainbows and the fluff filled air. I remember the joy of Gleek running full-tilt through puddles. The sharp words fade. A joyful evening is worth some inconvenience and unpleasantness. I need to remember that.