Riding in the Rain

We were already planning on going for a bike ride after mass.

The big kids wanted to have a Nerf gun war in the park and Claire was hell bent on riding her bike for miles.

As we walked into the door and started to change our church clothes and grab a quick sandwich, the sky turned dark, the thunder started to rumble and it was only a matter of time before rain and probably lots of it, was on its way.

I began to back track..."well, maybe we can make tea and read," to which, "BOOORRRIIINNGG," was their collective response.

"Come on, mom, it's not like it's acid rain.  It won't kill you.  Who cares if we all get soaked and muddy and struck by lightning.  It will be an adventure."

When did I become such an old fogy?  I mean really...the whole point of childhood is to splash in as many puddles as you can, to get as dirty as humanly possible and to soak up as much of the outdoors as you possibly can before you're forced to come inside when the street lights come on.

Okay, I relented.  Let's do this.

Moments after we left, it down poured.  And like a dip shit, I was wearing a white shirt and mascara, so I looked like a heroin addict, but no one cared.  That weren't looking at me.  They were being amateur snipers with their Nerf guns.

And then, going down a gravel patch by the park, Kate slid, fell off of her scooter and scraped the shit out of her knee, arm and hands.  And I thought...see, it's too slick. What were we thinking?

Assuming that we'd head home, I turned the corner to see Kate talking.

"What's up, Love?"

"Nothing.  I'm just talking to myself.  It's the best way for me to communicate what I need.  So, I'm saying, 'We should really go home now.  My knee is bleeding.' But the other part of me, the fun part, is saying...carry on, carry on.  Do you ever do that, mama?  Talk to yourself and decide what's best?"

"I do it all day long, Sweetheart."

And then we both looked up to the monsoon sky, stuck our tongues out and felt the rain.  We laughed.  I kissed her arm, her elbow, her knee and then said, "well, what are you waiting for?  Carry on, carry on."

So glad that for a few hours, I won the wet t-shirt mom concert at the school playground deciding that riding in the rain was the best decision for just a few hours on a Sunday afternoon.

The Path

From the time my children were babies, I've been taking them on long walks.

First, in the baby carrier.

Then, in the single stroller.

Eventually, in the double jogging stroller.

And now, all three on bikes.

They complain a shit ton when I tell them where we're going.  It's about a mile and a half from start to finish and for some reason that's just SOOOO long and TOOOO tiring.  Suck it up I telepathically tell them...and then, I try to make it fun.

The beauty of our location is that we're surrounded by older, established parks with huge trees, a beautiful golf course, lots of trails and places to hide...if you want to.

And so, each time, I let them in on a new part of the path...a hidden passage where you can go and dream.  Everyone needs a place to call their own and often, it's not found in the place where you dwell or call your home.

It's far away, under a tree, on a bridge, by a mountain or a stream...it calms you, it makes you present, it helps you get back to you.

On part of my favorite sojourn is a bridge where two houses reside.  One is a log cabin with a huge hammock embedded in what looks like Shel Silverstein's the "Giving Tree" and the other abode's entire front facade is windows and as the light hits, the entire kitchen is flooded with kaleidoscope reflections.

Every time I go for a long run, I incorporate "the path" into it.  I turn my music off and listen to my heart and my feet as they shuffle by and I dream.  Because really, I don't do it enough.  I don't let myself.  It's not practical to think about my hopes or desires.  There's just much to do.  But when I let myself pretend that I live in the log cabin with the fire in the winter and the tulips in the springtime and that I'm drinking a glass of wine as the sun is going down in the sunporched kitchen...a little bit of me is rejuvenated, feels alive again...and well, feels like me.

If you don't have a spot, find one....announce to the world that it's yours.  Dream, laugh, cry, reflect, hope...but mostly go there regularly to get away from the noise and to remember who you are when the world's not demanding that you be otherwise.

Here's a picture of me on my bridge with my kiddos and a song by Sara Bareilles called, "Once Upon a Time," that reminds me of what it means to be free remembering those childhood spots you could call your own.