Sand in My Toes

Yesterday I took the kids to the local lake. I sat, on the beach, and watched them swim, splash and play. (This, by the way, is a privilege seven years in the making. I remember being at the pool when my kids were tots, while Henry tried desperately to pull my bathing suit top down and Abby yelled "watch me, momma, watch me" every ten seconds. I longingly watched the moms of older kids as they sat in lounge chairs, reading or just being. Yesterday, I was them. That was me. For a solid 15 minutes. Ahhhh.)

As Abby and Henry played, I studied them intently. I watched their golden hair submerse in the water. I, now an outsider to their twosome, curiously wondered about their games and ideas. I had that sense that mothers of young kids rarely get to savor...the ability to observe my kids and not be immediately, intimately, physically connected to their actions.

Awash in the fabulous frivolity of their frolicking, it struck me that I got to watch the creation of memories. And I marveled at how easy it is to absorb someone else's "now" because of my ability to see it unfold. And then I chewed on why I didn't include myself in that now just a bit more. Because I was there, just in a slightly different physical space. Not merely a spectator, but an engaged recorder or historian of sorts, perched on my chair, sand in my toes, capturing the memories of my children. Watching the culmination of our years and minutes into now.

Yup. I was there.