skipping rocks

"Mom, can we go down to the lake one more time?"
       "Not now, Sophie. Wait until sunset.  It's too hot"
"Mom, now can we go down to the lake?
        "Not yet...just a minute. I've gotta do something first."
"Mom, can we go now?"
         "Quit bugging me! Not now!"
"Mom! You promised we would go to the lake at sunset, and that's right now!"
~~~~~sigh~~~~~breath~~~~~okay~~~~~~
"You're right Sophie. I did say that.  Let's go."

I heft 20 pound Beckam onto my hip for the 37th time that day and kiss his forehead.
"Pepper are you going to wear shoes?"
     "no.  I don't need any shoes, Mom."
Of course she doesn't.  Why do I even ask?  We have been camping at Pineview reservoir for 3 days, and her shoes always come off within 5 minutes.
My knees crunch and ache as I walk down the sand hill to the edge of the lake.
None of this is as easy as it used to be.
But I owe this to the memory of my own youth.  To let adventures happen.
Sophie will not let me forget who I have been, who I still am.
If I falter and get lazy, she says,
"Mom, you don't seem like yourself.  You seem like a real grown-up."
This is when I stand up and follow her lead.

We get to the edge of the water just as the sky is taking her biggest breath.
Her whole chest is flung wide and the clouds soar across her skin.
We almost missed this.
When I was first in recovery, I watched the sunrise everyday.
I remember thinking,
"This happens every morning, and most people miss it.  Yet she is always here, offering this."
I'd squat in the bristly astro-turf of our front porch and smoke.  I needed nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  I saw all the colors.

The beach is bubbling over with wide flat stones.  Perfect.
Sophie and I tiptoe over wet sand, filling our palms.
Sometimes we get it just right and cheer as the rock goes skidding its' magic over the water.
Only to groan as the next one kerplunks into a dud.
"Why is it sometimes I can do it, and then I find the perfect rock and it doesn't even skip once?"
     "I know!" I exclaim.  "It doesn't make any sense does it?"
I'm not humoring her anymore.  I am just as into it as she is.  I scour the sand with eyes of a child for the perfect gem.
I notice her hair is growing out and turning blond from the sun.  Her muscles are becoming defined by gymnastics.  They are her Dad's muscles and mine.  She gets it from both sides.  She is too strong for her youth, like a baby rattlesnake.  
Her fight for autonomy is so constant.  I forget there is a little girl in there still.  Sometimes I go all day without seeing her until we pray together at night, and she asks me to hand her Butterscotch.  He is the stuffed animal I used to sleep with, and now he is Sophie's.  I only gave him up 4 years ago when I got married.

Pepper hasn't gone in the lake once.  She stands on the beach and throws the biggest rocks she can lift into the water.  She jumps up and down pumping her fists after each splash.  Her victory dance is contagious.  Sophie and I join her, bouncing and laughing.  She talks to herself in a sing-song voice and walks lightly on her toes.

This is how I get to know my kids.  I get so carried away in the current of needs that I ignore their spirits, and my own.

On our drive home Sophie asked me,
"Mom, what was your favorite part of the family reunion?"
     "Hmm...I think it was when we went skipping rocks on the beach at sunset."
"Me too," she says, and smiles at me in the rear view mirror.