Today was the kind of gray and rainy day that seems like it belongs in April or October, instead of early August. But when summer came last March, and winter hardly came at all, judging a day by what what month it feels like is a tricky exercise.
My two daughters were making an feeble attempt at sharing an umbrella as we walked toward the fieldhouse in River Park. In an attempt to break it up, I asked my little one to walk with me instead. “But Dad! I’ll get all wet!” she protested.
“Just humor me sweetie.” There’s no harm in asking, is there?
She gave me an “Oh all right” look and stepped away from her sister and the umbrella. The rainfall was just a token amount, and the moisture it produced was hardly noticeable. She told me that she wanted to work on the secret handshake that we came up with a week ago. It’s a high-five, followed by a couple of twirls, and a raised hand in the air, another twirl, an expression of the word “Boo-yah” and a jump in the air with a clap.
It only takes about 10 seconds to perform this handshake, and in those few seconds nothing matters but getting the moves right. We did the handshake a couple of times, and in that small moment there were only the two of us, performing a choreographed little dance that the world was not invited into. It was too good to last for very long.
After the second run-through was completed, my little one noticed that her mom and big sister were approaching the entrance to the park’s fieldhouse. She didn’t want to be left behind, so she broke into a run and shouted “Come on Daddy, hurry up!”
For one painfully short second, I realized how much I wanted that feeling to last. I wanted to snatch it up, put it in my pocket, and bring it back to the house, where it would sit on the fireplace mantle for the rest of my days. I’ve felt that way a lot over the past few years, and suppose that I will continue to, for the foreseeable future.
Hurry up? But sweetheart, that’s the last thing I want to do.