Yesterday, after building a hopscotch that went to 42 and impressing Evan, my favorite 4 year old, with jumping backwards the whole way, we ate popsicles and made up songs about ladybugs and butterflies.
When his sweet younger sister woke up, we trekked off to the park for an afternoon of monkey bars and tire swings underneath the rumbling train tracks.
2 blocks from our destination and 8 from home, the sky darkened and raindrops starting falling on their toes and my face. With a quick turn around and and a walk that bordered on a jog, we headed home, hoping that the storm would wait for us to get inside before it turned torrential.
"ri-SSSSA," Evan screamed, "I'm getting wet!"
"I know, kiddo. But I promise you, I am getting more wet than you are."
After a quick explanation of the benefits of a roofed stroller and what it means to be without an umbrella, Evan began to understand that I was, in fact, experiencing more of the rainstorm than he was.
"I hope the rain doesn't get any heavier until we get home!" I exclaimed, half to myself.
"Why, Rissa? Why do you hope that the rain doesn't get any heavier until we get home?" Evan, unusally articulate but appropriately curious for his age, asks me matter-of-fact-ly.
I, also unusually articulate for my age, begin to detail the difference between our two similar situations. We might be together in the same storm, but Evan is curled up in a ball under the hood of the stroller, gazing at me through those strange clear patches above children's heads in most commercial strollers, and I am briskly walking down the street in a white dress that has turned almost entirely clear. I also explain to him that I have no spare clothes at his house, while he has plenty of dry outfit choices, hoping that my plight will be made clear to him.
Evan does not understand.
He understands even less when, after I tuck the stroller in the lobby of their condominium, I suggest we go play in the rain and take their hands and dance in the front yard while rain soaks every garment and piece of exposed skin that we have.
"Rissa." He says sternly. "I'm getting wet. I don't want to be wet anymore." And begins to pout.
I pick up his little sister, who has her face to the sky and rain dripping down her chin, and place her on my hip while I hold Evan's hand and we trek ourselves and the rain back into their condo.
Two hours later, complete with a change of clothes, a time out, a few cat scratches, a game of tag that ended in his sister being knocked to the ground and both kids crying, a healthy snack, a sing along of Veggie Tales, and series of spinning circles that seemed to last forever, Evan and I sit down to play a game of Hi-Ho-Cherry-Oh while his mother makes dinner.
"Rissa, I had fun with you today." He says, and I know he means it.
"Me too, Ev. Me too."
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