We joined some friends today at Bicentennial Park to experience water jetting up your nose in the hot, summer haze. As you can see, it’s a beautiful day for splashing around, and my six-year-old made the most of it, but the same can’t be said of my son.
He’s three (which I invoke as context, not an excuse) and upon arrival began to whine. I suppose the combination of rushing water and rushing children proved overwhelming, because he refused not only putting on his swimsuit but approaching the water at all despite multiple coercions.
I love my son (which I submit not to justify but to remind myself) and want him to wring every drop he can out of this swimsuit called life, but he can’t do that if he won’t even put the damn thing on.
Now, in deciding not to do the activity for which I brought him, did he instead do something lame like pull out his phone to blog?
No, he had a great time running around bone dry, exploring the park’s other features such as the perimeter of this tree:
I can blame the kid for wasting the ten bucks I spent to park downtown, but I’m not going to. You see, our time this morning wasn’t wasted. We got outside on a beautiful day, vitamin D was manufactured, sweat moistened out brows, and I got to spend some one-on-one time with my boy. He kept throwing his arms around me from behind, choking me with love, and the only times he frayed my nerves was when I tried to force my agenda on him, so really the only unpleasantness was my doing.
Today Asher taught me to let people be, allowing them to exist as who they are, not what I want them to be. Perhaps I’ll grant the same grace to myself some day.