Saying Yes to the Sweetest Invitation

“Mommy, will you come sit with me?” my son calls from the wooden stairs leading up to our deck. He’s holding a small basket in one hand, his water bottle in the other. Between his feet is the Bluetooth speaker we bring outside with us. Wastin’ Time by the Okee Dokee brothers wafts toward me as I gently edge toward him, paying attention to my barefooted steps.

Out of habit, my mind begins to list things I “should be” doing during this outside time. Like catching up on my reading or making notes for my next piece I’ve been wanting to write. Like grounding to try to calm the inflammation in my body or checking my phone to see when my husband will be home from work.

“Stop,” I respond to the running list in my brain, “how many more times in his life will he ask me to come sit with him? How many more times in my life will I have an invitation this good?”

So I put down the load, lay the burden of “shoulds” at the bottom of the stairs. I place my sandals back on my feet and ascend toward him, lowering myself to the stair he’s sitting on. I share a stoop with my sweet little boy.

The sun is brilliant. I have to roll the sleeves of my short sleeve shirt up, bunching them at the tops of my shoulders, exposing my full arms to the rays. The breeze is gentle. Every so often the bangs on my son’s forehead flutter.

We don’t speak. The songs of Sara Ernst and the Okee Dokee brothers curl and coil around us, binding us together in this moment. Their words draw us into nature. We both look all around. Sometimes up into the blue, examining the puffs of white slowly rotating above. Sometimes into tree branches, the newest leaves just beginning to bud. Sometimes downward, tiny flowers – technically weeds – coloring the green canvas. Sometimes at our own feet, ants dancing dangerously close to our toes. Every so often I notice we’re examining the same thing. But mostly we’re both observing the world on our own, while being together. And every few minutes we make eye contact, both smile, before going back to our individual surveillance.

And I think, I love this life.

If I were never to read another book or write another sentence, this would be enough. If I were never to reach my ideal health numbers or feel connected to others digitally, this would be enough. How many more times will this happen? Maybe hundreds. Maybe ten. Maybe none. Maybe there will never be another afternoon spent exactly like this.

All because of an invitation. All because of a yes. All because of intentionality.

As Sara Ernst sings, “pretty sure we’re meant to be wild and free,” I tell my son, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he says, and goodness that’s enough. 

Originally posted 3/12/24 on old website