“So are we actually going to do something on spring break?” he asks, as we sit on sun-warmed concrete.
“No, I mean do something exciting, like go somewhere,” Noah persists. ‘We’re not really doing anything fun.”
“Yeah,” Rowan chimes in. “We’re not doing anything fun!”
I admit, my kids are more than a little entitled. They are used to adventure, to being on the go. They fly to destinations like the Florida Keys; they spend weeks on the North Shore of Lake Superior. They swim in my sister’s pool and build sand castles on the beach of Long Island Sound. They aren’t accustomed to a vacation at home, in Nebraska, in March.
“Come here,” I call to Rowan, “I want to tell you guys something,” and he climbs the hill to stand next to me, squinting in the bright sun.
“Is this some kind of prayer or something?” Rowan interrupts.
The kids don’t say much in response. Rowan looks at me skeptically, still leery that this might be a prayer masquerading as a speech.