“Do you want to go to the woods today?”
Groans where there used to be cheers.
Steady steps with long legs when there used to be running, wild feet.
The nature center stopped calling to them.
Sometimes, parenting means witnessing the end of an era right in front of your eyes.
Sometimes the loss is like a little death.
But then we entered the dull, brown forest with green pushing its way through the brush.
The sun shone on faces which had been shrouded by winter for months.
Rocks below our feet started to look interesting again.
“Ooh, this one looks like a tooth. What do you think it’s made out of, mom?”
We stopped at a creek with a tiny bridge.
They didn’t tear socks off to wade, but they bent over to look for frogs.
Just like they used to.
A lump formed in my throat.
And then something interesting happened.
We talked about the Natives who lived here, and the settlers who followed. We talked about legends and lore, laughed about old walks we had and places we’d been. We told jokes.
I didn’t have to tie a shoe, or shepherd a runaway preschooler, or worry about nap times or mid-afternoon meltdowns. I asked my 6’2” son to fish a small stone out of the water for me, and he did.
Just like he used to.
The thing is, the end of an era is the beginning of a new one.
On the drive home, we didn’t have to fasten their booster seats, distribute sippy cups, or dig out 15 rocks they put in my pocket. (I did ask our son to hold my rock in his pocket since I didn’t have one.)
We ordered coffee on the way home and talked about life, theology, biases, music, and drove through the newly-plowed fields.
And I felt beyond blessed.
Just like I used to.
The Homeschool Historian 