One More Time Down the Slide

Childhood has a funny way of disappearing while you’re living it.

When your kids are little, it feels like the yard will always be full of bikes, toys, muddy shoes, and somebody asking to stay outside just a little longer.

Then one day you notice the bike is bigger.

The swing hasn’t moved much lately.

The slide sits empty more than it used to.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

Kids just slowly move on to other things, and most of the time we’re too busy keeping up with everyday life to notice it happening.

I don’t think we realize we’re living the good old days until they’ve already turned into memories.

Right now, evenings can feel rushed.

Dinner needs made. Somebody needs a bath.

There are dishes in the sink, laundry somewhere waiting to be folded, and bedtime always seems to sneak up faster than it should.

So when one of the kids asks, “Can we stay outside a little longer?” my first thought isn’t always yes.

Sometimes I’m tired.

Sometimes I’m already thinking about everything that still needs done.

But I also know there will come a day when nobody asks me that anymore.

There will be evenings when the yard is quiet, the bikes are put away, and no one is yelling, “Watch this, Mom!” from the top of the slide.

That’s why I try to say yes when I can.

Not every time, because that’s not real life.

Sometimes we really do need to go inside.

Sometimes everybody is tired and one more trip down the slide is definitely going to turn into five.

But a lot of the time, ten more minutes isn’t going to hurt anything.

The dishes will still be there.

The laundry definitely isn’t going anywhere.

Childhood isn’t made up only of vacations, birthdays, and big family plans.

Most of it happens on completely normal days.

It’s catching frogs after it rains.

It’s riding bikes until the sun starts going down.

It’s climbing the same tree over and over again.

It’s digging holes in the yard for no real reason and bringing me rocks, bugs, sticks, feathers, or whatever else they found.

It’s asking me to watch something they’ve already done twelve times.

Those things might not seem important while they’re happening, but I think they are.

Kids learn a lot outside without us having to turn every moment into a lesson.

They learn how high they’re comfortable climbing.

They learn how to wait, how to pay attention, and how to figure things out on their own.

They learn that mud washes off.

They learn that bugs aren’t always something to be afraid of.

They learn what the air feels like before it rains and which parts of the yard stay wet the longest.

They learn the places around them by actually spending time there.

And really, not every minute outside is peaceful or picture-perfect.

Somebody usually gets mad.

Somebody gets hurt.

There’s an argument over whose turn it is.

Someone tracks mud inside right after I told them not to.

That’s still part of childhood too.

I take a lot of pictures because I want to remember these days, but pictures can’t hold all of it.

They don’t catch the way their voices sound when they’re excited.

They don’t show how many times they called my name before I finally looked.

They don’t capture the whole story behind the muddy clothes, scraped knees, or toys scattered across the yard.

Someday the slide will sit empty more than it’s used.

The yard will probably stay cleaner.

There won’t be as many bikes left in the way or muddy footprints across the porch.

I know that’s just part of kids growing up, but I’m not in any hurry to get there.

For now, I’ll keep trying to notice these ordinary evenings while they’re still happening.

And when I hear, “Watch this, Mom!”

I’ll look.

Even if I’ve already seen it twelve times.