There were days there. Weeks. My boys would build forts inside; create war games that involved guns, swords, bombs, and barricades. They lingered on various devices – even the v-tech camera with silly games on it. I begged, I pleaded, and then I gave up.
Each day I took myself outside into the bitter cold and walked. For me, the outdoors is essential to my overall health. To my boys, well, they had other thoughts.
I missed the days they played outside for hours and hours. They created mudslides, forts, and potions in the sunshine. When the first big snow came they built a fort at the top of our big hill and sled down over and over again.
But then, the cold hit hard, and the boys came inside. Day after day the temperatures plunged. Negative one, negative five, negative ten. The wind chill sank as the sun shone brightly, albeit, distantly, against the blue sky.
“Just bundle up!” I said.
They turned their glazed eyes toward me and blinked.
Or they peered out at me behind a wall they created with pillows from the top of the staircase. I tripped up the stairs, down the stairs, and cursed under my breath at the “stuff” everywhere.
Saturdays we cleaned.
“Family clean time!”
For five minutes the floor would be free of debris, houses, obstacle courses, and bits of paper with tiny scratches and drawings on it.
“It’s warmer today,” I’d say.
They’d race past me, tackling each other against the wood floor.
“The floor is lava!” they’d yell one evening.
“He’s not letting me have the green ipad,” they’d yell another evening.
But they would not venture outside. Not even for a second.
Each day I’d go out, wrapping my face, testing out new mittens, lining my fleece lined pants with long underwear.
“We are doomed,” I said to my husband one evening, “our children refuse to go outside!”
Then we forced them onto a frozen lake.
“It’s family fun time,” I shouted, “so have FUN!”
And there was a moment, I am certain, they remembered what the outdoors can be.
Because later on in the week, my middle walked to the mud room and started to pull on his snow pants.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’m going outside,” he said.
“Like, into the outdoors?” I stammered.
He looked up at me and pulled his eyebrows tight in a quizzical expression.
“Yes, mom,” he said slowly.
The next day two of them started pulling on snow pants, then coats, boots, hat and mittens.
“What’s happening?” I asked, peering around the corner of my writing room.
“Creating a cool sledding hill,” one said.
“An obstacle course,” the other added.
“Fun,” I said.
I watched them from the windows of our dining room as they played and stayed outside for hours. Sledding turned into fort building. Fort building returned to sledding. Just like I used to do.
I think I recall my childhood incorrectly sometimes. I tell my boys I played outside every day after school for hours and hours. I played after dinner and all weekend long. But maybe that’s just memories evolving the way I hope they will. I bet the truth is I had a childhood similar to there’s. Some days I wanted to stay glued to the screen, some days I played with barbies and Legos, and some days I really did stay outside past dinnertime.
Still, I’m going to savor this time. The floor is free of cushions, and soon my boys will come inside with rosy cheeks. Just the way it should be.
Embracing Next 