It’s finally happened: My favorite day of the year has arrived.
And, no, I don’t mean Mother’s Day or Easter, I mean the one most
parents have been dreaming about since late October: ”The Day Kids
Can Go Back Outside to Play.”
It’s finally happened: My favorite day of the year has arrived. And, no, I don’t mean Mother’s Day or Easter, I mean the one most parents have been dreaming about since late October: ”The Day Kids Can Go Back Outside to Play.”
Of course the whole significance of this day is lost on those of you who don’t have kids. But those of you with children know exactly how life changing this day is. For instance, I can now stop talking. And talking. And talking. Let me explain.
Being inside with kids all winter is a lot like being a hostess or a tour guide for a very persistent, dysfunctional party cruise. For the last five months I’ve been held hostage indoors, telling stories, singing and making up games. I’ve been an audience to umpteen magic shows, lost over 14 fazillion board games and have poured enough cups of juice to float the Titanic, but what boggles me most is the amount of talking that goes on.
Not that anything is wrong with this. After all, we’ve all read articles written by parenting experts on how important it is to communicate with your child and all that. But me, I am the type of person who can be happy going for a whole day not saying more than two or three important words. But you can’t get away with this when kids are around. No-sir-ree. Especially with kids who are stuck playing inside. They want to know what time it is now, what time it will be in five minutes, what time it will it be when you’ll play with them, the whole theory on creation of the universe, your view on the whole Garfield versus Scooby Doo issue and, oh yeah, if you think the blue tiara or the purple crown goes better with red glittery shoes.
But don’t feel sorry for me. Save it for my friend Linda, the mother of a 4-year-old daughter, who has been trapped playing wedding consultant everyday for three months.
When I called her the other day our conversation went something like:
Me: Hi, how’ve you been?
Her: Fine. But do you think a stuffed duck should wear a straw hat or a paisley bonnet when she gets married to a hamster?
Me: The hamster’s getting married to a duck?
Her: Yep. But that’s nothing. Last week the salad tongs married the pepper mill. On Tuesday, the pizza spatula married the Betty Boop salt shaker. And yesterday, Malibu Barbie married the rubber octopus that lives in the bathtub. Frankly, I don’t think it’ll work out.
Me: But –
Her: Yeah, I know it sounds crazy. But after a while you sort of get used to it.
Me: I –
Her: Well, gotta go. It’s time for the rehearsal, and I’m in charge of seating the groom’s family.
Then there’s my friend Sue, the mother of twin 3-year-old boys. For the last few months she’s been walking around with a glazed look in her eyes mumbling something vague about the bathroom, a flood and 17 Hot Wheels cars.
So you can see why, sooner or later, parents start itching for kids to be able to go outside.
But if you ask me, one of the best parts about the kids playing outside is that the house gets quiet. Very, very quiet. No one wants to play Checkers or know what time it is, the plumbing goes back working normally and all your household objects safely resume their single lifestyles. However, don’t let all this silence fool you. You see, the problem with the Day-Kids-Can-Go-Back-Outside-to-Play is that, unlike Easter or Christmas, you can never be quite sure it’s the real thing. I mean, it practically never fails that, just when you dredge the sandbox, break out the sun screen and start the conga line around the inflatable pool, it rains again, and the temperature plunges, and everyone is back inside.
Then you know that it was just a false alarm. What I call a Pre-Day-Kids-Can-Go-Back-Outside-to-Play, or something like that.
Sometimes Mother Nature has a mean sense of humor.
