“Dad, do you want to kick the ball with me?” Owen asks.
It’s 8:45. A full day, I’m about to shower and go to bed.
Not close to a window to see myself, I ask him, “Is it still light?”
“It’s getting dark, but we can still see…”
My first impulse is to answer, “No…let’s try again tomorrow when it’s brighter,” but I know tomorrow is no guarantee, and to say “no” once—defer and put off for another day, each time done—it becomes easier to do again; and the things we intend and wish to do are never done.
I override impulse.
“Okay,” I answer.
He runs off and comes back with the soccer ball and his new cleats on.
“No cleats in the house,” I remind and reiterate for I don’t know how many times, “They’ll scratch the floor.”
“Oh right (he is just excited and, excited, forgetful)…” He assesses and falls to his knees crawling for exit from the home—toward backdoor first, then redirecting when he sees that front is closer. Out the door, he runs around our home when able to be on feet and cleats again.
We kick in the dusk. He’s high on energy—running, cutting, juking, kicking…
I’m there—handballs to stop the ball from getting past and chasing when my body’s a step behind. He doesn’t mind, and I am called for no penalties.
What he wants then is not to be alone—to be with me—to have me there to accompany, watch, and talk him up—recognize—when he’s doing something good.
That’s what I give to him, recognizing—in my life—that’s often all I want as well.
What we give away returns to us, and wanting these, I give them into him.
The time isn’t long—but it is meaningful. I recognize and am grateful for this.
After, shower still waits, so does the bed, and I sleep with a soul at peace knowing I did as I should do—not putting off to another day what was asked and given chance today.
