sunday afternoon

Finn, brushing his curls from his eyes, earnestly asking to go to the park. “I pack my bag mom, I got my toys.  Let’s go?” I  stayed up too late the night before, fixated on a train wreck of a reality tv show.  The dog woke me at 6 am, her cold nose in my back, asking for breakfast. “Ok,” I yawn, stretching, standing.  Let’s go.

Water bottle, Spider-man mask, the blue transformer and a Wolverine “I can read!” book.  Off we go.

We rarely get days like this on the peninsula. Barely a speck of white in the sky, slight, sweet breeze off the water, sun warm on my freckled, pale shoulders.  These are the days tourists flock here for. 

Finn squeals at the sight of the slides and the swings, the big climbing boulders.  He hurriedly tries to work his buckle, his sweaty little hands uselessly pushing the release button.  Finally, free from his car seat, he skirts the fence, up to the playground. He is wearing his flip flops and decides to switch into his tennis shoes, as the sharp little rocks find their way to the soft soles of his feet.

He had tossed his tennis shoes into his back pack and I hadn’t checked to see which ones.  I saw they were the too small ones, the black ones with the white stripes. He still manages to push his foot into them, only to take a step and change his mind. “It’s okay, mom, I wear my ‘fip fops.”

One hour turns into two. I take the occasional break from running, chasing, to open my book and try to find where I left off, only to hear his voice calling from across the playground, “Mommy! Watch this! Are you watching? Mom!”

A blonde haired little girl walks up, holding hands with her very pregnant mother. Finn’s eyes widen in delight. “My friend! My friend is here!” Finn doesn’t know a stranger. Everyone is his friend.

I observe the little girl and her mother, communicating with their hands. She is deaf.

I whisper to Finn that she can’t hear his voice, that her ears aren’t the same as his. He stares curiously, unabashedly, as four-year-olds do, and watches them talking with their hands.

A few minutes, barely, and they are running, playing.  Her hands fly, and he wants to be part of it. He starts moving his fingers, slowly at first, and then, gaining confidence, flinging them around in earnest, his brown eyes searching her face for approval.

Another hour, and it’s time to leave. His friend is gone, and I zip up his bag, feeling the sweet burn of my now rosy shoulders.  It will be miserable later, but it’s everything right now.

At home, he sits across from me on the back patio, hands sticky with strawberries and peanut butter. His eyes are tired and I say so.  “I don’t got tired eyes, Mom! I got wake up eyes!” he responds, widening his eyes and giggling.

He quiets down a bit, eyes trained on his peanut butter cracker.  Soon, his chin drops, and he is asleep, sitting in his chair.