We scuttled down to the beach after dinner. Son1 weaving from side to side on his scooter. Son2 singing as he ran barefoot along the road. I strolled behind sharing eye rolls and wry smiles with other parents, at the loons in front of me.
Across the bridge, past the car park and down to the river flowing into the beach. They splashed around, pouring out stones, up and down, up and down. I sat in the evening sun, blue sky above my face dotted with cotton wool trail clouds. The small ones shrieked with delight at crocs floating down the stream, stones poured down their backs and the feel of water on their feet.
I gazed at almost 5 and almost 3 and marvelled at their random play, their delight in the world around them, their growth over the last few years and the sense of progression in them. I looked at older children scattered around the beach near us, wondering what our boys will turn into, who they will be years from now, what they will make of their childhoods in the future.
As I sat I tasted something rare inside. I think it was contentment. A lack of sheer exhaustion from sleep deprivation. A knowledge that it is brilliant fun, sometimes, mooching around with my boys. An awareness that they are growing less all consuming in their need of interaction with me. A sense that we have made it through the early early years with them.
I can sit and watch them play and for a while they are happy, having fun, occasionally coming over to show me something cool or to give me huggles.
I sat in the golden sun and tasted the moment. Savouring a peaceful joy filled time with my beautiful boys.
(And it made up for the extremely grumpy hour we had on the beach earlier in the day when I was less content 🙂
Your correspondent. Thinking that maybe going home might not be so bad after all…