dirty socks = backyard fun

My children are playing outside right now.
It is almost 6:30.
Homework is done.
Dinner is in the oven.
I should be getting them in the bath,
into pjs,
fed and cleaned and into bed
snug as bugs.

I should. . .
But not yet.

It has been one of those rare and glorious Fall days in Savannah when the morning starts out at a chilly 60 degrees and gradually warms into the 80s, still cool in the shade, cool in the house with the windows open and a breeze running through. I have been almost giddy with it. Smelling it, drinking it, sucking it in through every pore because I know it will not last.

But they have been at school all day.
I wonder if they open the windows at school?
Their brief playground time isn’t enough on a day like today. It is probably never enough . . .

I can hear them now in the backyard, talking and laughing and swinging.
Working out elaborate games with dozens of characters only they can see.
Building clubhouses
and birds nests
and their imaginations.
Building their friendship.

So dinner can wait for now.
Bath time and story time and bed time can wait.
Because they are playing,
and that’s what children should do.
Because I’m tired of rushing.
Because this day is coming to an end, and while there will undoubtedly be other evenings just as cool and sweet, this evening will never come again.


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