Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Boy + Puddle

= Lots of Laundry.

Everytime Elan steps out the door these days, I have to strip him down before I can let him back inside. This morning, we walked to Habitot, the hands-on tot "museum" in downtown Berkeley. I opened the door, and he immediately gravitated toward the gigantic puddle that takes up residence outside our carport in every rainstorm. The puddle was inviting, mama was still loading up the stroller... Next thing I knew, he was stomping in earnest. I had one of those momentary mommy snaps, where you get instantly and unreasonably angry about some small thing. I dragged him out of the puddle. "You cannot get wet before we even leave the carport!" Of course, he was wearing his frog boots. So I was asking for it.

We walked along nicely, playing "Pooh Sticks" (a result of his current obsession with a certain short Winnie the Pooh film). Every place where an inch of water had pooled, he found a stick. "Ready, set, go!" he murmured seriously to himself, and dropped the stick in. And then, narrating the result: "Splash!"

After two blocks, we arrived at a large, deep puddle. A puddle whose siren-call was so loud even mama could hear it. He started off with sticks, then a toe in, then a shuffling foot. Soon he was shin-deep in the water, splashing and squealing with delight. I sat down on the curb. Birds chirped. The sun was on my back. A striking red-headed bird with a black-and-white striped chest danced around in a tree. Ah, the slllooowwwiiinnnnggg down of toddler time. How good it is when you can give in to it.

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