It’s a chilly Saturday evening – the eve of Mother’s Day – and my youngest son, a teenager, is bored. “Let’s go hiking or something, mom.” He laments. My husband pecks away at his computer keyboard, working on his homework, so I reckon it’s up to me to keep the man-child entertained.
We get our shoes on and as I look out the window, big drops plop from the sky. Drip, drop, kersplat. I check the radar. “Uh…” I raise an eyebrow. “You realize a downpour is coming?” I inform my son. “I don’t care.” He replies. “I like walking in the rain.” “That’s my boy!” I reflect, because so do I.
I make him drive, since my car was parked in, and we headed to a nearby park called Waubedonia. The rain came steadily. We drove slowly through the park, and saw that despite the rain, there were numerous campers braving the weather. They huddled under their EZ-ups, sitting in their lawn chairs, enjoying the rain too. We parked and leashed our yellow lab Beau, and began to roam the park’s trails.
The river was bloated from recent rains and the raindrops dotted its surface and made a hushed, harmonic pattering, as it intensified.
We trudged upon the gravel road, and then across the freshly mowed lawn. We headed to the corner of the park that leads into the woods. The grass was wet, and we got soakers as we got near the little foot bridge that was along the path.
Although it was chilly, and we quickly got soaked through our clothing, the smell of the rain and the fresh air was refreshing and rejuvenating to the soul. We quietly wandered through the various park trails, enjoying the flowers and new growth fueled by the spring rains. I paused occasionally, face upturned, to feel the rain streak across my skin like tears.
I enjoy the fleeting moments such as these, because I know time is short and that soon my youngest will branch out on his own, like his brothers before him. I know that someday soon, Mother’s Day, along with the major holidays, will be one of the few days a year that I will see any of my children anymore. That dry spell is coming, and it’s a rough terrain I don’t look forward to traveling down.
For now, I enjoy the soaking wet downpour, and also the aftermath of having to bathe a nasty, smelly, wet dog with my son. My youngest thinks I should have written about Ruff Terrain instead.
There have been some rough storms we all have to go through, when raising children. With those storms come new growth and lush vegetation. Storms strengthen us and cause roots to grow deep. I hope that along with the stormy relations, and the heart I’ve rained down on my children, that this has made them grow strong and reach for the sky.