Clink. Clink. Clink. Whoosh. Slosh. Clatter. Drip. Drip.
Soak.
The sun is still high and streaking in at a sharp 45-degree angle over the kitchen sink, highlighting the trail of after-dinner crumbs on the counter. We stack our dishes in the stainless steel tub, filled with warm bubbly water, leaving them to their nightly spa. We tumble out the front door, shoelaces unsecured, hastily grabbing sunglasses for our (finally) coatless evening walk. It’s one of the few things we’ve done with regularity for the last nine years–sometimes merely making it around the block due to weather or toddler meltdowns, while others unfolding into a long wintry hour under starry skies.
The big boys open the creaky, roll-up garage door, snap on their helmets, grab their scooters–and zip back and forth until we’re all ready. Not to be empty-handed, the little one hooks his push truck around his palms, and we’re off. Five of us in various groupings of one, two, or three blocks the sidewalk as we chatter, laugh, or wildly bellow ‘slow down!’ The scooters melodiously ka-dink, ka-dink, ka-dink, ka-dink over the smooth pavement squares and grooves, while that teeny tiny plastic push truck roars with the deafening pandemonium of a lime peel in the garbage disposal. Or a Lego.
We keep a watchful, nervous eye on the scooter twins, whose leashes are longer than ever this summer. As it should be. The nearly-three-year-old desperately wants to keep up with his older brothers but is torn because that means mentally and physically un-koala-ing himself from me. And so, we enthusiastically skip-walk and scoot and push ourselves the two blocks to our neighborhood lake, attempting to catch up with each other’s day, helloing the neighbors, breathing the uncirculated air, stretching our vision, our voices, our lungs.
We cross our one busy street, and then Olly Olly Oxen Free! They bust out into the vast emerald fields, ditching their scooters in favor of legs, outrunning the airplanes above, and the (multitude of) rabbits below. Someone always checks out the new addition of books in the Little Library, and the littlest one always heads for the orange bucket swing suspended from creaky chains. Skree. Skree. Skree. It’s punctuated with trailing laughter and a shrill “push it bigger.” Always. The playground is our first stop–sliding, climbing, riding–and then more swishing through overgrown grass and clover to the lake and boathouse.
We stand at the water’s edge, momentarily checking out who is on the lake, which boats are in and out, hands stuffed into pockets and leaning back on our heels like old men. Brown palette pebbles are gathered, tossed–glip, glip, glip, and we meditatively stare out at the ripples. Shoes and socks come off and toes dip in the cool lake. We meet new and old friends on the docks or sometimes we have it to ourselves–either way, it’s home.
Time to loop back. Our long shadows leisurely fall behind us now; our pace has weakened and with our destination behind us, Keep Going negotiations with the littlest one have intensified. Five minutes to get there, thirty to get home. The older boys are racing each other, dancing with the smooth asphalt path: step, swing, pump, step, swing, pump. They swoop a circuit around the three of us as we plod along, making inches of progress while investigating every sign, rock, bug, person we see.
A thousand hours later we cross the busy street again with only six houses in front of us. The little one gets a boost, the older ones drop their scooters at the doorstep. We tumble in as we tumbled out. Shoes askew.
Whoosh. Slosh. Drip.
Splash. Soak. Giggle.
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Beautifully Ordinary is a trademark of Jen Lucas Photography, LLC.
