April showers bring May flowers . . . and big wet puddles.
The spring rains have filled up the holes and low spots in the road and created beautiful big puddles. Normally, I would have dismissed the puddles overall, occasionally noticed a random puddle for its mirrorlike surface, and generally avoided them by going around or leaping over, and moving on. Now, my son won't let me.
All that wet stuff beckons to him and he runs in with a little squeal of delight to splish and splash. Without regard for the water temperature or his footwear, he tap dances a little patter of joy in a few inches of water. Slap-slap. Slap-slap-squish, water squirts and fountains below him. His pant legs are soaked up to his little knees and he is laughing and grinning with glee to match Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain.
He has so much fun doing this that I have purchased rain boots so he has appropriate gear for his latest hobby.
And I've caught myself thinking, when did I stop splashing in puddles? Because I can't remember the last time, it must have been over a decade or two ago. And now I recall (from the furthest reaches of my memory) enjoying squishing barefoot in mud puddles when I was eight years old on a warm summer day and how refreshing it was. Was that the last time?
Sometimes we forget past joys, we mature and become adults, and we certainly don't splash in puddles [said with a sophistated superior tone]. When I did become too busy and stodgy for puddles? Well, I've decided that while I have the excuse of my little boy (and probably beyond that), I'm going to rejoin the ranks of puddle-splashers ... because puddles are for splashing. Maybe I'll see you out there, fellow splashers.
The spring rains have filled up the holes and low spots in the road and created beautiful big puddles. Normally, I would have dismissed the puddles overall, occasionally noticed a random puddle for its mirrorlike surface, and generally avoided them by going around or leaping over, and moving on. Now, my son won't let me.
All that wet stuff beckons to him and he runs in with a little squeal of delight to splish and splash. Without regard for the water temperature or his footwear, he tap dances a little patter of joy in a few inches of water. Slap-slap. Slap-slap-squish, water squirts and fountains below him. His pant legs are soaked up to his little knees and he is laughing and grinning with glee to match Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain.
He has so much fun doing this that I have purchased rain boots so he has appropriate gear for his latest hobby.
And I've caught myself thinking, when did I stop splashing in puddles? Because I can't remember the last time, it must have been over a decade or two ago. And now I recall (from the furthest reaches of my memory) enjoying squishing barefoot in mud puddles when I was eight years old on a warm summer day and how refreshing it was. Was that the last time?
Sometimes we forget past joys, we mature and become adults, and we certainly don't splash in puddles [said with a sophistated superior tone]. When I did become too busy and stodgy for puddles? Well, I've decided that while I have the excuse of my little boy (and probably beyond that), I'm going to rejoin the ranks of puddle-splashers ... because puddles are for splashing. Maybe I'll see you out there, fellow splashers.
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