“What’s that?” my almost two-year-old asks, his constant question. He points at a circle of water on the pavement, rippling as droplets of water plunk down from the sky. It’s my 35th birthday and I’m out on a walk with him in the rain. I should be back in the house, cleaning before a party tomorrow. But I’m not. I’m just here with him, gazing at puddles.
“It’s a puddle,” I say. “You can splash in it.”
He tip-toes into the water. Then he stomps into the middle of the puddle, water splashing up onto his petite jeans.
A silver-haired lady walks by, a neighbor I don’t recognize. She says something I have difficulty understanding in an Eastern European accent. I finally catch that she’s asking my son’s age. I answer and she remarks, “She’s a good mom, letting you play in the puddle like that,” to my son.
This is me at 35.
35 is choosing the joy in the rain even if you “should” be doing something else. 35 is wondering what exactly strangers mean by their weird comments and choosing to take them in a positive way. 35 is following where your child and your heart leads.
When I close my eyes during Christmastime, I see my parents’ house, with its fresh tree with white twinkling lights, ornaments from my childhood dangling off it. My dad has classic rock on in the background, either from an ancient speaker system or the TV, depending on what memory I’m drawing from. In the kitchen, my mom is making a gingerbread house with my older son, placing marshmallows just-so.
