Doing

“So are we actually going to do something on spring break?” he asks, as we sit on sun-warmed concrete.

“What do you mean, ‘Are we going to do something?’ We aredoing something; this is something,” I reply as I dislodge a pebble with my foot and watch it roll down the embankment into the culvert stream below.

“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.

We sit on the concrete culvert on a warmer-than-usual March afternoon. It’s a favorite spot, below the bike path and just before the stream widens, trickling beneath the A Street bridge. Earlier this winter I had to drag them away from this very spot, so content were they in their “job” of breaking up ice chunks in the frigid water.

But now they are restless and agitated.

“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.

“We don’t always have to do big, exciting things, you know,” I begin to explain. “Sometimes it’s fun to find joy in the small things, too.”

“Is this some kind of prayer or something?” Rowan interrupts.

“No, it’s not a prayer, I’m just saying,” I laugh. “I’m just saying that it’s a beautiful day, and we’re at your favorite spot, and the sun’s out and there are rocks to roll into the stream, so why don’t we just enjoy the moment for what it is, instead of wishing for something else.”

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.

I lean back on the steeply angled pavement, the crook of my elbow over my eyes. I hear Noah get up, and a few minutes later, the boys’ voices echo off the concrete over the din of the traffic. Opening one eye, I turn my head and look down at the stream. They are piling rocks next to the water, deep in conversation. It looks like they are building a dam.

Do you find you have this same restlessness, too – the need to always be doing something big or important, exciting or productive? I admit, I do.

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