Good thing I couldn't find one of Asher's trustee tennis shoes today. Otherwise, I wouldn't have thought to put his boots on for our walk. We couldn't waste a 63-degree day in December (sorry polar ice caps, but global warming has been good to us), though I hadn't realized how much water had pooled from last night's rain.
So there we were, babe bundled in stroller, toddler following dutifully alongside, when Asher notices a puddle and looks at me to gauge my response to the idea we both knew he had. I'm not always the best about letting him get messy. It was 12:30, and he was already on his third clean outfit (due to the dismantling of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and "accidentally" jumping into his little brother's bathwater)... but since he'd donned boots, I smiled, nodded, and the boy went charging. What a sight. A little boy gleefully being a little boy.
I am always amazed at the way he beelines for the puddles I do my best to avoid. I'm too quick to scold him for the childhood crimes of curiosity, over-excitement and mess making. Armed with my good intentions for firmly raising the boy right, I sometimes forget he's just a boy.
I drew the line when Asher started dragging his fingers through the stagnant water, topped with oily rainbows. No sense in my child getting sepsis on my first day of enlightenment. He needed yet another pair of clean pants by the time we returned home, but it was a very small price to pay. He had such a good time.
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