It’s 7 o’clock. Peter is putting things away in the shed. I’m trying to convince a “not tired” two year old to come in the house, but the makeshift sandbox in the backyard is like his Call of the Wild. Tired and frustrated, I storm across the yard.
“Elliott, it’s time to go inside,” I say.
“No inside. Play a sand,” I hear in return. And so it begins.
“No, buddy. It’s time to go inside. You’ve played in the sand enough,” I say. Secretly, all I’m thinking about is how I hope he’s clean enough to where I can just dust him off and avoid a bath, because at this point, I’m exhausted. The last thing I want to do is bath time. As I’m standing there silently calculating my evening, I hear something.
“I lie down.”
No. NO. Nooooo. Just like that his hair is full of sand, sticks, and crusty old flowers. My plans of just dusting, no bath are going out the window. I’m about to reach down and yank him out of the sandbox when, staring up at the sky, he starts talking again.
“Oooo, pretty trees. So many weeves. Ah-yet see a sky. A cloud in it.”
I stop and look up. He’s right. The trees are beautiful, full of green summer leaves, the evening light shining through them in shades of orange and yellow. They’re set on a perfect backdrop of blue sky, just a single white cloud floating in it. I look back at his little face, sticky and sandy, mesmerized by the show that nature has put on just for him. For a single moment in his otherwise wild and crazy day, he’s peaceful. Still. Happy.
I let him keep his head in the dirt, and I sit next to him. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve done it, but I spend the next few minutes quietly looking at the sky. Then, just like that, he’s up and racing around the yard again. But for a moment, we both stopped and were silent. And for a moment, I was reminded of the beauty of summer evenings, courtesy of my tiny wild man.
Ok, not the evening I reference. But it’s my boy in nature, which is close enough.
