Rambling

This morning after we had played our hearts out in a new-to-us park, we ventured into the surrounding neighborhood for a long(ish) walk. Simon led the way, dutifully reaching for my hand whenever he wanted to cross a street (so sweet). Ian dozed in the stroller; his only request was that we keep moving at a steady, even if slow, pace. Simon stopped for sticks, occasionally trading for a bigger one; tried to peek into garbage cans (no no, blechy) or recycling bins (no no, blechy); pointed out the spots where recent rains had washed dirt across the sidewalk (unlike every other kid on the planet, he thinks dirt is “uh-oh!”); and squatted to check out dried “babies” (trans. baby worms). At one point he stooped to dig a stick into the crack of a sidewalk and lingered for a good five minutes before Ian reminded us it was time to move on (perhaps Ian was also feeling the displeasure of the woman across the street who kept peeking out her window at us shady characters).

It was my kind of morning. I love a good ramble—not the adult kind of rambling that happens when you’re restless and listless and bored, but the kid kind of ramble, when you’re just wandering around because, you know, what else are you doing? When every squirrel and bird is worth celebrating. When around every corner is an adventure. Or not. Whatever.