A walk with Elle
Elle is at the age where she wants “down, Mommy, down” so she can walk wherever it is we’re going herself. I am at the age where I am having no more children and she's my youngest and I want to carry her. But I’m working on this, truly I am. Which brings me to today.
Today the two of us went for a walk.
When I go alone, the walk is more of a jog and consists of plunking one foot in front of the other, plus a good deal of breathing, a bit of sweat, and the occasional creaking of bones which really ought not be happening to someone my age. Go out, go in, take a shower.
A walk with Elle is different. To say the least.
To her, a walk goes a little like this:
Run part way down the drive, knock on the back of the van door so the door will open and your stroller will come out. Do a happy almost-jump (where your feet never actually leave the ground, although they intend to) when Mom says that no, honey, we don’t need the stroller, you get to walk today.
Run to the end of the driveway and promptly stop. Call over your shoulder: "'Mon, Mommy, 'mon!"
Take a few steps. Bend down to pat your shadow. Walk over to pat Mom’s shadow. Practice saying shadow. “Da-dow. Dadow.”
Take a few steps. Bend down to pick up shiny rocks. Pick up every rock you see from here to the end of the road.
Say, “Here, Mommy, here. Here,” and make Mom the designated rock holder.
Hold Mom’s free hand while you cross the road.
Take a few more steps. Walk along the edge of someone’s lawn so you can listen to the crabgrass smish-smash beneath your shoes in a whispery sort of way.
Pick some grass and hand it to Mom, saying, “Fowers. Fowers.”
Take a few steps. Wave to houses, SUV’s, your shadow, the sky.
Crunch through the gravel. Turn around and crunch back in the opposite direction. Reluctantly turn again when Mom leads you forward by the hand.
Take a few more steps. Whisper, “Birdie, birdie,” when a sparrow hops alongside you through the grass.
Walk to the middle of the road and sit down. Stand up, take a few steps, and repeat.
Reach for a basketball marooned in the tall grass of someone else’s yard. Say, “Ball, ball” fifty times. Whimper when Mom picks you up and carries you away.
Ask Mom for the rocks. Take the rocks from her hand, one by one, and throw them as far as possible, which is maybe two feet.
Turn around and gaze longingly at the yard with the ball.
Walk to the middle of the road and sit down. Pat some dirt; look at your muddy hand in dismay. Wipe your hand on your pink shirt.
Tell Mommy, “Up, up!” and reach with both arms.
Push away and want down once she picks you up.
Take a few more steps. Tell Mommy, “Up, up!” and this time really mean it.
Let Mom carry you the rest of the way home because you’re tired of walking and besides, it makes her happy.
Today the two of us went for a walk.
When I go alone, the walk is more of a jog and consists of plunking one foot in front of the other, plus a good deal of breathing, a bit of sweat, and the occasional creaking of bones which really ought not be happening to someone my age. Go out, go in, take a shower.
A walk with Elle is different. To say the least.
To her, a walk goes a little like this:
Run part way down the drive, knock on the back of the van door so the door will open and your stroller will come out. Do a happy almost-jump (where your feet never actually leave the ground, although they intend to) when Mom says that no, honey, we don’t need the stroller, you get to walk today.
Run to the end of the driveway and promptly stop. Call over your shoulder: "'Mon, Mommy, 'mon!"
Take a few steps. Bend down to pat your shadow. Walk over to pat Mom’s shadow. Practice saying shadow. “Da-dow. Dadow.”
Take a few steps. Bend down to pick up shiny rocks. Pick up every rock you see from here to the end of the road.
Say, “Here, Mommy, here. Here,” and make Mom the designated rock holder.
Hold Mom’s free hand while you cross the road.
Take a few more steps. Walk along the edge of someone’s lawn so you can listen to the crabgrass smish-smash beneath your shoes in a whispery sort of way.
Pick some grass and hand it to Mom, saying, “Fowers. Fowers.”
Take a few steps. Wave to houses, SUV’s, your shadow, the sky.
Crunch through the gravel. Turn around and crunch back in the opposite direction. Reluctantly turn again when Mom leads you forward by the hand.
Take a few more steps. Whisper, “Birdie, birdie,” when a sparrow hops alongside you through the grass.
Walk to the middle of the road and sit down. Stand up, take a few steps, and repeat.
Reach for a basketball marooned in the tall grass of someone else’s yard. Say, “Ball, ball” fifty times. Whimper when Mom picks you up and carries you away.
Ask Mom for the rocks. Take the rocks from her hand, one by one, and throw them as far as possible, which is maybe two feet.
Turn around and gaze longingly at the yard with the ball.
Walk to the middle of the road and sit down. Pat some dirt; look at your muddy hand in dismay. Wipe your hand on your pink shirt.
Tell Mommy, “Up, up!” and reach with both arms.
Push away and want down once she picks you up.
Take a few more steps. Tell Mommy, “Up, up!” and this time really mean it.
Let Mom carry you the rest of the way home because you’re tired of walking and besides, it makes her happy.
posted by nic at 11:15 PM
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