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The Double Eagle

My parents enjoyed the outdoors and taking us kids on adventures no matter how loudly reluctant we were. We strolled, hiked, rode bikes and took out a canoe from time to time. Imagine our parents’ delight when our grandfather sold our family his boat, a 14-foot, 1980 Double Eagle, in pristine condition. It boasted orange decking, brown leather chairs and an off white hull — an adventurer’s dream. A six-pack of chunky, bright orange life jackets later and we were on our way.

All four of us were helpless casualties of their meanderings and self-guided boat instruction. The Double Eagle made them feel limitless with the wind in their hair (at way too many knots an hour) and their newfound capacity for exploration, they had the whole natural world at their fingertips. The Double Eagle was a patient teacher, rather built well. That’s the thing with boats — you learn as you go, and learn they did, thank goodness she was sturdy, built for unyielding adventure.

We hit a sand bar in one lake, sputtering us all right back into reality, our fate resting in the goodness of passersby to free our boat. We also ran out of gas, more than once if I recall correctly. Thankfully, we had oats and boaters, in general, are kind people and they came to our rescue. Our parents eventually learned the exact limitations of that boat and all of our sanity by putting them both to the test. Perhaps there was no other way — in the words of T.S. Eliot, “Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.”

We would pull up and jump ashore beside other boats more sleek and more modern coloured, it’s riders sported neoprene life vests in fashionable colours, I’d have given anything in those moments for a trendier neoprene life vest.

The trips started out small, just a few hours searching for everything we had been missing out on while boat-less. We found elusive beaches, hidden waterfalls and spent countless hours beach-combing for “jewels” — strangely shaped wood that had the potential to be made into a table leg or a lamp by my dad, who had very little extra time for projects. We would cheer him on, often adding our own finds to his growing pile. The wood secured the best seats on the boat and it became our responsibility to fit into the boat as best we could. He would lovingly place each piece of carefully curated treasure in a heap beside his shop. He’d eventually move the pile from house to house, very few pieces of wood ever reaching their full potential. Perhaps the pieces of wood were ok with that though, having enjoyed an extra moment of admiration, far after they had provided shade or danced in the breeze.

During one of our expeditions we landed on the shore of a boat-in only campsite. There were three groomed sites for tents hidden in the forest behind, a large beachfront and an outhouse. It was free, off-grid and involved the boat — our parents were thrilled.

Camping sites, back then, were first come, first served and we would drive around with a vehicle packed to the hilt with camping gear, tarping supplies, a large assortment of treats and four very hopeful children. No vacancy signs, confirmed by speaking with site attendants filled us with dismay as we drove with growing urgency, further and further from home and later and later into the day. How much trickier it would be to ensure the boat-in site would be ours, it was imperative we beat the weekend rush.

We never pared down our camping supply list, on account of needing to boat in all of our supplies, in fact we brought more. My dad packed enough two by fours and a sheet of plywood to set up a very elaborate beachfront tarp system, complete with level picnic table and of course an ample supply of firewood. We would need to do two trips. Weighed down, the trip took 45 minutes to an hour depending on the moodiness of the water. When we picked up speed, the rear of the heavily-packed boat often threatened to sink below the surface; it was my brothers job to hop up onto the bow. Those of us who could, clambered forward and the rest of us just leaned and held our breath, hoping we could displace enough weight to not go under. Somehow, our ambitious packing never caused our capsize, though in one terrifying moment, my brother and his friend were both washed into the water, but just once.

We had enough supplies to fill the beach, due to my dads over-sized tarps and furniture made on site. To onlookers, I’m sure it seemed as though we had always been there and were leaving no time soon and so we never had to share the camping area. I’m quite sure the small number of unruly, bedraggled children had nothing to do with it.

Upon arriving at our explorers paradise, the skies broke open and the rain poured down. We set to work unloading and setting up our tents. The outstretched arms of the cedar trees offered very little protection from the rain. We longingly joked about abandoning the whole trip for a warm hotel, but we grew up on a budget, dad had already left for the second load of supplies and it was already growing dark. We were just barely able to see beyond the branches of the trees, the rain making the lake’s surface come to life. We fumbled through set up and took shelter inside the kids’ tent. We climbed into our sleeping bags, clicked off the flashlight and settled in to wait for morning.

After what felt like forever, we heard the trusty hum of the Double Eagle’s motor. Our dad —an experienced camper—startled us all as he walked around the tent pushing on the walls, “stay away from the walls to stay dry,” he warned. We huddled together, with our backpacks, in the middle of the tent. Sleep overtook us all as we imagined what tomorrow’s light might bring, listening to the falling rain on the tent.

We excitedly unzipped the tent and stumbled out to find a much more favourable day for camping. We played amongst the trees, on the sandy beach and cooled off in the frigid water. We enjoyed tubing, holding on for dear life until we plunged into the cold water that smacked like concrete and took our breath away. “Faster!” We screamed.

As the day warmed, an old man kayaked over to our campsite, two smaller kayaks in tow. A tiny bathing suit showed off his sun weathered skin, his eyes appeared so large behind the thick glasses he wore on a strap fastened behind his head. He may or may not have been a little “off,” said my mom who prided herself on her stellar intuition and never took her eyes off of us as he hoisted us in and out of his kayaks, summer after summer. I’m not sure if it was politeness or curiosity that led her to allow us to follow him to his campsite a short hike down the beach. She followed closely. He was set up to stay the majority of the summer in an incredible fortress made of the wood he had collected from the beaches. These sticks were surely enjoying their second life; I’m sure he was a good guy.

I admire my parents resolve for adventure. Taking four whining, heavily-resistant children into the elements is not for the faint of heart. I don’t recall any of us kids ever loving the boating part of these escapades, though when our feet hit the ground again, as we reached our destination, we were happy explorers.

My brother-in-law recently rewired the motor at my mom’s request, and we all cinched up our orange life jackets extra tight (pretty sure those were original), sat our kids on the brown cracked leather seats and took a ride on the Double Eagle, for old time’s sake, fondly thinking back on all the trips we survived.

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It’s Just Another Covid Monday

Their nails bore the markings of many paintings, worn off in long baths and having endured the infinite scratchings of unending boredom, still a myriad of colour remained, peaking through their flour crusted nail beds as they helped knead the dough.

“Can we make cinnamon buns?” They had asked. I sighed, with three helpers, an already somewhat arduous task would become exponentially messier and time consuming. But we had put up our Christmas tree only two days ago and the aroma of last years cinnamon dough decorations had filled the house, made our bellies yearn and our mouths water. The three times glued together, Christmas T-Rex, stared out with its single googly eye, from its low lying branch in the tree — baking was inevitable.

“Ok. Let’s do this. Remember this is a long project,” I said it to them, but it was meant for me. I took three deep breaths and reached for the already dusty bins of flour and sugar and placed them in front of the younger two, both armed with a mixing spoon.

We had the time. This year, caution dictates sick days be used for the most minor symptoms. “Just being cautious,” I said to myself as I logged in, last night, to submit my absence, reevaluating my daughters cough and runny nose in my mind. Never before has the bar been set so low for heroism: stay home. It feels good but so strange to stay home, guilt-free, on a day like today when our health is only barely compromised.

Just as I was thanking these dark and foreboding skies for their silver linings, my heart feeling warmer than our kitchen attempting to raise our ball of dough, our youngest walked into the kitchen sans diaper and smelling like a very full one. I was quick on the search, fearful of what mess might befall my eyes, but our very old yorkie had beaten me to it, her nose is years younger than the rest of her. Muzzle deep in the diaper and in desperate need of a hair cut, she looked like a Wookie, if Chewbacca had ever fallen head first into a fully loaded diaper.

Never has the bar been set so low for my personal accomplishments either, and I’m ok with it. I gave a dog a bath today. I repaired several Christmas decorations as I watched our tree turn into the most popular play space, only a few feet away from the bins overflowing with actual toys. I taught three kids very bad air guitar, and we rocked really hard to Green Day, blasting way too loud. And I added another layer of nail polish to their fingers, Christmas colours, because ‘tis the season.

Yes, our tree features an Easter basket with Ty Beanie unicorn, and it’s perfect.
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the old house

Devoid of any flesh or rot, as if it had always been a skeleton, never a horse — as though muscles, tendons and ligaments had never moved its spectacular form — the remains bleached white under the prairie sun, became a destination we returned to year after year, a monument of our annual summer pilgrimage. It lay unchanged, as did the rest of the property. Though it was apparent time had at some point transformed this creature, this entire place, from its original state — a bustling general store, post office and homestead — it seemed as though it had somehow happened all at once and time had forgotten to return, continuing its steady progression forward. 

It always began with too long a journey. Road trip games were punctuated by car fighting, we loudly boasted completing the alphabet, signalling both the end of the game and our winning — a lie, it was always a lie — and as if in the confines of the car volume determined truthfulness, we shouted our false victory. “A zed!” If we were lucky the shouting ended the game, although most often we did not favour concession, and shouting led to fist fights, which led to time outs. Whether we were involved in the backseat mischief or not (we were, we always were, in one way or another), we were instructed from the front seat, to sit on our hands. Angry with our new predicament we had to work harder to irritate our back seat companions further. With a dirty look, words or elbows we always succeeded, and it never failed, we would be sitting on our hands with our heads in our laps for what seemed like a significant portion of our trip.

Excitement rose as we neared the farm, it always did. As we travelled the long straight roads, we watched for familiar signs. As the road turned to gravel we knew we were close and we strained to look for something the dark and monotonous prairie fields kept hidden from our longing eyes. Some how none of it was familiar and yet all of it was. 

We parked our car on the hard packed dirt between the old house and the new one. The old weathered house looked out at the new one. Forlorn and leaning, it timidly called to us, offering endless opportunity for exploration if we should give it a chance. The new house wore fresh paint, robins egg blue, it stood square flaunting electricity as the mosquito trap buzzed and sparked as it caught its prey. The new house would be home for the next week. Bags in hand, we followed our great grandfather inside the new house, but it was the old house that held our curious hearts captive. 

It required no imagination to see my young grandmother dutifully throwing seed for the chickens that freely roamed the hardened soil in front of her childhood home. Swept up in times past, we found ourselves being drawn into the old house, past the creaky door, into the house that preserved artifacts of another lifetime under its dilapidated roof. 

Candy remained in tall glass jars on a long counter where the general store and post office once bustled. Even now I wonder about the tremendous amount of restraint required for those jars to remain full for decades with two young children living so nearby. How was it decided what goods would be moved into the cellar of the new house, and what would be forever preserved in the forgotten home?

We crept past the banjo that still hung on the wall, turning up the dark, narrow stairway, clutching the railing. Each tread, leaning slightly, squeaked under the weight they only bore once each year. 

We inspected the bedrooms, still furnished, items abandoned as though the house would have immediately collapsed should they had been removed. Maybe we should have paid more attention to my great grandfathers cautioning, “be careful” and took notice that he never followed us into the old house. We explored each inch of the old house before temporarily closing the door, promising to visit again the following year, in turn the old house too promised to continue to carefully protect its contents.

We rode a horse in a large figure eight, mowed into the long prairie grass that only rustled slightly in the prairie breeze, so tall, it seemed it had never bent under the cruel weight of snow. We rode past the silo, over and over — still full of corn, for the cattle that used to roam the fields it so proudly looked out on. It threatened to swallow us whole if we did not pay it the respect it was owed and so we kept our distance as it towered over us.

We were trusted with the motor trike and spent a great deal of time darting through the adjoining fields. We toured out to the old horse skeleton pondering the grandeur of the creature and the expanse. What was its story? We found ourselves creating a narrative for the incredible beast in its final moments, each one grander than the last as we gazed into its empty eyes. Perhaps it had died of old age, on a warm summer evening, such as this. Perhaps it had finished its day, a dutiful companion and work horse, it simply laid down its head and fallen asleep surrounded by several of its knowing friends and passed from this life into the next one. The gentle grass blew and the starlings performed their evening dance in the darkening sky. Or perhaps it had become lost and found by a pack of wolves on a blustery snowy night, it had put up a valiant fight, but at the end it succumbed to its predators and nourished their bodies for the coming days. Perhaps with freshly filled bellies, the wolves taught their young the spirit of gratitude as they leaned back and howled beneath the moon, giving thanks to the earth for providing. The young wolves echoed their sentiments.  

At night we sifted through old coins, and rummaged through war time memorabilia. We listened closely to stories from my great grandfathers time as a mechanic in the war. He waved his bent finger in the air, recounting a story for each piece we held up. 

We delved into the relics in the new house, the eight tracks in the closet of the upstairs bedroom, replaced by the large record player in the living room downstairs — a photo of our late great grandmother adorned its side. I think I remember her or at least I imagine remembering her one stormy night, though she never exists, in my mind anyway, outside of that room. 

We busied ourselves for days on the homestead, a place where both the past and the present somehow existed simultaneously. Just when it seemed we had explored every area, it was over. We found comfort upon packing for home, knowing the farm would be waiting for our next visit, we would find it exactly the same, and we did year after year after year. 

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A Midsummer Cold — Patience Level: Zero

Our home was hit with a cold. Not the wipe-you-off-your-feet-putting-you-on-the-couch-with-a-box-of-Kleenex-eyes-barely-open-as-you-listen-to-your-favourite-TV-show-hovering-somewhere-between-consciousness-and-completely-asleep type, but the one that just barely messes with your wellness and majorly depletes your patience level. It interrupts your children’s sleep as the virus hits their little bodies a little harder, rendering you and everyone in the house in a state of utter exhaustion.

In this particular circumstance the croup cough resulting in a midnight ambulance call might not have helped things. But when your three year old wakes you up with a terrifying, panicky, wheeze hack and manages to say that she swallowed a rock and the hubby is on an out of town shift, and there’s two other kids still sleeping, you call. A false alarm, thank goodness, but then we were all awake, still stunned and on edge. Eventually the hum of the fan, the uneven snores of a croupy three year-old and the claws of an eight month-old baby, on my face, lulled me back to sleep.

They’re bickering before I even lift my head from the pillow, like really bickering complete with neck punches. I am in a fog that no amount of espresso can lift. I find myself losing my patience and then apologizing, on repeat. All. Day. Long. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.” None of us are our best selves, physically, mentally or emotionally and we are all simultaneously both imploding and exploding. All. Over. The. Place.

Our five year-old, while not obviously sick, seems to have the same level of irritability as myself amplified by the heat, and is antagonizing her sister and me at every turn. She pushes allllll the buttons. “Get ready!” I yell, “It’s time to go!”

I bend over to help our three year-old put on her swimsuit, she refused to take off her shoes. I’m dizzy and I feel myself slipping into another moment of unnecessary exaggerated frustration as I try to jam uncooperative shoes through a seemingly invisible leg hole. As I take a deep breath, I catch a glimpse of her footwear. Her paw patrol socks are stretched up to her perpetually scratched knees, and her mismatched shoes on the wrong feet. I take a minute to remind myself that she’s three, and she’s not feeling well either. There’s a thin layer of snot across her entire face, and wisps of her hair are booger glued to her face, I attempt a crunchy pair of pigtails.

They’re not buckling their car seats and yet for some reason the three year-old still feels the need to scream “I do it my own self!” When I reach in to help, she swats at my hands and stiffens her body — an angry, snotty, piece of defiant plywood. The harder I push, the harder she resists and it takes everything I have to stand back and watch her struggle with her badly twisted straps as her baby sister, in desperate need of a car nap, begins to loudly complain.

Somehow we made it through the day, good friends who don’t mind some venting and help to keep my kids happily occupied, helped for sure. We made it and I head to bed optimistic that tomorrow is a new day.

The baby has it now and her clogged nose makes it impossible for her to keep her beloved soother in place. All night booger sucking, bum pats and quiet shushing mean that again I got very interrupted sleep — a recipe for disaster.

Unwilling to waste even one warm summers morning I prepare them for an outing. My head is stuck in a “seize the moment” mentality and I overly ambitiously decide it is very important we head out early to beat the heat of the day. My head is spacey as I shuffle three kids, two dogs, enough snacks, water bottles, extra clothes and a blanket into my car.

Then, “Crunch!” I backed my car into our mostly opened garage door. Tiny pieces of styrofoam shoot out from the now very curved garage door and I let out a frustrated cry. My good-hearted neighbour reminded me it was an accident, a fixable one and my husband graciously laughed as I delivered my news via FaceTime.

We should’ve just stayed home, embraced a sick day and watched a movie, but the edges of wellness are deceptive and I really thought we could do it. Summer provides so much time for relaxing and yet counterintuitively adds a sort of pressure to get out there and provide our kids with opportunities to have fun, lest we waste the day. I’ve been keeping a mental summer to-do list — the last summer before our five year-old enters kindergarten — of all the great things I remember enjoying when I was young.

I often tell my kids that we all make mistakes, but it’s important that we learn something from them, to hopefully avoid repeating it. I learned it’s ok beneficial to waste use a warm summers day for rest and repair when our bodies and minds require it. The next kinda unwell day, I’m calling it, right from the get go, couch and cuddles, no matter the weather and perceived pressure to have fun.

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When Parents Lie and Other Magnificent Things

I never cleaned under my bed. Ever. It infuriated my mom (I get it now, I’m sorry, Mom). And by never cleaned, I mean not only did I never clean under there, I also used it as a place to sweep all of the other items from my room that I didn’t want to clean up, which was mostly dirty laundry. By all appearances my bedroom was clean, but the facade quickly crumbled each and every time there was even the tiniest of inspections.

I’m sure she grew tired of repeating herself, so in some next level genius mother move, she created a horrendous atrocity of an insect that I had no idea only existed in both of our imaginations. It had wings, many eyes, long legs and it hopped, quite possibly flew and very much enjoyed dirty spaces and especially dirty laundry (well played, Mom).

I can vividly picture it to this day. So vividly, that for the next few years I peered anxiously at dust bunnies and lost socks with angst, I most certainly never swept anything under there again and anything that happened to slide too far into the darkness had to be written off, for the rest of time. I spent the next few years leaping onto my bed from a safe distance so as not to disturb what may have been lurking underneath. There was no need for further inspections, the lie eliminated the problem. I’m fairly certain she forgot about the bug, not long after the dirty dilemma ceased to exist, though I would continue to be haunted by it for years to come.

She successfully converted me (although I’ve exchanged the antiquated “cleanliness is next to godliness” adage, for a slightly more favourable and much more achievable “keep it tidy or kinda close so droppersby won’t think you’re gross” sort of motto). It was not until I had become a parent myself that I actually questioned its existence. That’s right I was 32 years old, speaking to my own daughter, and repeating myself about the importance of maintaining a state of near cleanliness, when the bug hopped into my mind and I realized it was all a clever hoax. 32. What an effective ruse.

I grew up before the Internet age, a time when parental lies went unchecked. A time when most lies were unverifiable, my mom had the upper hand, and really she had all the hands, because a parents word was irrefutable. These days we parents are dangerously close to losing the “parents are always right” advantage.

Our five-year-old daughter captured a black and vibrant yellow millipede in her grandparents garden. She lovingly prepared a home for it in an empty coffee can, and allowed it to crawl all over her hands and arms. When she wanted to know what to feed it, she asked me to ask my phone. She knows. She knows exactly how the internet works: no question needs to remain unanswered. She even fact checks her dinosaur encyclopedia against the internet, hoping to catch an error. In this circumstance we learned black and vibrant yellow millipedes are poisonous, and it now resides outside, again.

But that’s not all our parents lied about, they also told us if we dug deep enough, we could get to China and then handed us a shovel. We believed them, maybe we were extra gullible or maybe the idea that we could pop out on the complete opposite side of the world was so entertaining it was worth the effort, so we dug, real blister-popping, callous-forming, rewarded-by-splinters, digging.

My sister thought my kids thoroughly vacuuming the stairs with a play vacuum that spins heart shaped sparkles around while whirring, was painstakingly sad. She was born in the 90’s though, things must have been different then. My kids think they’re helping, and they are, it’s just not with vacuuming. Sometimes we parents need a minute, where the kids are occupied and not with fighting.

I tried it. I told a lie, at least I think it was a lie, or maybe it has actually happened once to someone somewhere and the story has been retold for generations to come, as a warning for all of us. I was locked behind u-shaped table, which limited my access to the rest of the class, which occasionally frequently strayed from the task at hand. I glanced up from the laboured reading of the yellow group and locked eyes with the new boy. Surrounded by three kids who had flipped their eyelids inside out, he was TERRIFIED. Before I had time to think, I blurted out, ”they’re going to stay like that!”

“But we’ve done it before,” they countered.

“Yes. I know.” (I had taken time to explain how horrifying this was, just yesterday.) “But that’s the thing with eyelid flipping, you don’t know when it will stick, it just does sometimes.” I raised my eyebrows, summoned an ominous voice and added, “Forever.” I had to, in for an inch, in for a mile, or something like that. For his sake, I perpetuated the messed up children’s urban legend and added a Russian roulette twist. Before you judge, don’t forget how I was raised. Bonus: they never did it again and while I wasn’t incredibly proud of how I’d curbed the eyelid flipping, it was effective. So I get it and I think I’d do it again.

I grew up in a time, when “because” or “I don’t know” sufficed as answers, but my kids are used to answers because the answers are so readily available, and they know it.

I don’t think I’ve deliberately lied to my own kids yet, aside from the usual exaggerating of the truth, like if you don’t let me brush your teeth they will rot, where the immediacy is very intentionally implied. I also often blame things on time, like it’s too late/early for candy or it’s time to go. I find it concerning that when the time for real lies, the big imaginative creative ones, does present itself, the internet has the capability of instantly and effortlessly tearing my intricate web of lies to pieces.

Has the internet deprived us parents of the chance to recirculate the lies we were once told? Or are kids still buying into the urban legends of our youth?

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the trees

nourished

by the decaying

collective

the spirits

of our ancestors

whisper

through

their branches

adorned

with loving trinkets

they bow

their heads

in omniscient reverence

for the dead

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Our Blatant Invisible Luxuries

They’ve done it. The third time is the charm. Twice my desperate pleas of, “I’m sleeping. Shut my door,” worked. “Pleeeeeease!” I add and pull the duvet up higher. It feels early, but it’s not — not in this house anyway.

I roll off the bed and take the almost giggling baby with me. She loves mornings, she loves the super high-pitched squealing declarations of love from her sisters too. Goodness, that’s high-pitched. I need coffee.

I power up the espresso maker. It stubbornly beeps at me, a reminder that I forgot to empty the grounds, yesterday. It needs water too. A petulant thing — I’d complain, but then again I’d give her anything and she knows it. Satisfied, she pours a double espresso, extra long, just right.

I release the dogs from their kennels downstairs and prepare their medicines. That’s right, they’re both taking medicine now, for the rest of their lives. We probably should have better timed getting dogs, so they weren’t both seniors at the same time.

I prepare breakfast for us all. We all want different things. Not a problem, the espresso has kicked in.

And then the poo. She warned me, by pushing and grunting. I bring her to the change table, and lie her down. I remove her diaper and carefully peel off her jammies. There’s poo in her armpit, well that won’t do. I run a bath.

Her sisters crowd around as I lather her up. She laughs and kicks her legs under the heavy wash cloth. Sufficiently clean, I lift her from the tub. She looks unimpressed to be leaving the warmth of the water. The towel I had neatly laid out on my bed is now balled up on the floor. “Thanks,” I mumble to nobody.

I rinse off her poo-logged jammy in our oversized sink, I spray on too much stain remover and place them into the washing machine. Before I press start, I gather the remaining laundry from the various places it has been strewn about the house, tucked into the couch and hidden under beds. I’ll repeat the same circuit later, scouring for dirty dishes and random toys.

The weather looks iffy and I can’t stand the thought of being indoors all day. It’s time to get to the park. They need a snack. Crackers and cheese strings will have to cut it.

The baby falls asleep on the six minute car ride there. I buckle up the baby carrier while making small talk with a couple in the parking lot. They lower a ramp out of their car for their Rottweiler, who very happily makes her way out of the vehicle. My kids are equally as happy as they make their way out of mine. The baby stays asleep, snuggled against my chest as her sisters chase down bunnies wildly waving their carrots in the air. “Go slooooowly!” I whisper.

We walk through the park, greeting everyone with a genuinely hearty, “good morning!” (I may have had a second espresso). They echo our sentiments, everyone is happy to be out here.

We stop a few times to throw rocks in a pond, attempt to climb a very large rock and to watch ants scurrying around.

While my kids play at the sandbox amongst the once loved, now abandoned, toys I contemplate this short morning, a typical one, mundane even (in the most beautiful way), I’m lucky.

I can’t help but think that of course they’re coming. Of course people want their children to experience even the smallest luxuries we all take completely for granted. Safety at the most basic level, enough food and shelter. Even my inconveniences are convenient — blatant invisible luxuries.

I did nothing to deserve this. Nothing. And yet here I am, completely complacent.

I’ll likely never have to risk dehydration and starvation crossing deserts. I’ll likely never need to brave the ocean waters with a child on my back. I’ll likely never need to cross borders to keep my family safe.

But I would. If it meant that my children for just one morning could run freely through fields, throwing rocks into ponds, attempting to climb impossible rocks or watching ants scurrying on the ground, not a care in the world, I would do it. I would.

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These Moments

“I want to keep having fun” she protests, but the clock indicates it’s past bedtime. We know all too well what venturing too far past bedtime entails — it isn’t worth it. How lucky that hanging out with us is her idea of fun, her choice even. For a moment, I feel guilty for sending her to bed.

There’s glimmers of this phase passing, when we are no longer our kids’ entire worlds. My three year-old playing in the bath, raises her small pruney hand and demands that I, “Get ouuuuuuuut!” My five year-old insists I return to bed, when I interrupt her and her sister’s early morning play, with my presence.

I snuggle our tiniest daughter in extra close, breathe in her sweetness as she paws my face in the very early morning. I wrap my arm around her little body as she drifts off to sleep again.

I’m so lucky our spirits found one another. I’m so lucky these beautiful existences are intertwined with my own.

These are the things I remind myself of when I find the crackers they asked for smashed into tiny crumbs under the feet of a ferocious plastic TRex. Or when one is loudly begging to leave the park and the other removes her shoes in an even louder statement of refusal to leave the sandbox. Or when two of them have escaped their beds, far after bed time, laughing hysterically while hiding behind the kitchen table hoping to prolong their inevitable recapture. When they throw down more attitude than I have had sleep. When I want to rip the hair from my head and scream, “For the love!!!” or maybe a whole string of poorly matched obscenities — don’t judge, I’m tired.

But then her fingers curl around mine and I look down at the hand holding my own. Would you even be you if you weren’t this obstinate, fiery or ridiculous? Would we even be us without these moments? And in that moment — that exact moment — I wouldn’t change any of it.