I want to tell you about this moment because it was beautiful, and I don't want it to be gone and done already. Somehow, with meager words, I want it to last forever.
We ate a delicious meal, sizzling vegetables in a hot molcajete, with warm tortillas and fresh orange juice, overlooking the lake as the sun was perched low in the sky. Fortunately, the boys were hungry enough that they ate in silence, washing down their taquitos with gulps of ice cold naranjadas. As the sun went from yellow to orange, we basked in its beckoning to relax. Solomon watched a little girl, about seven or eight, wading in the restaurant's pool about 15 feet away. There was a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes, a wondering of why or how or when she managed to submerge herself, clothes on, in an ice cold pool, alone. He pondered this, in silence.
Across the table, Rainer was anything but silent. His grunts and squawks were endearing, and also annoying. But his plump thighs overflowing from his light green romper made him quite lovable, and any chirping was forgiven. While Solomon is cautious, Rainer is reckless. While Solomon observes, Rainer plunges in. Quite literally. It took Mr. P's physical restraint to hold that little rugrat back. And, finally, as we've learned many other times in parenting, it's best to release them - to dive in, spontaneously, to their thirst to experience.
Before I knew it, all three of my boys were up to their necks in the water, all their clothes on, teeth chattering, grins from ear to ear. As I watched them splashing and laughing, the golden sunlight reflecting on their faces in the clear blue water, I gasped ever so slightly, searching for my breath in the midst of this perfect moment. All was right in our world in that instant. And I wanted to grasp at the beauty of it, wrap my fingers around it, and put it in my pocket. Somehow, I wanted to be able to dig deep for it on a lonesome Monday, while sopping up spilled milk and blocking out the shrill screams of my demanding toddler. When I need it so desperately, I want that snapshot to be there, at arms reach, to comfort me with its loveliness.
"Writing can be a pretty desperate endeavor, because it is about some of our deepest needs; our need to be visible, to be heard, our need to make sense of our lives, to wake up and grow and belong." (Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird)