"You have to come out and hear the echo," Daughter #2 calls from the front steps. "And you can hear the surf pounding," she goes on. "It's amazing!"
"I'm not getting up," I tell her. "I'm too tired. I just want to relax."
It's nine o'clock at night.
After a long day, I'm finally settled on the couch with my feet up and my laptop in front of me, totally ensconced in Blog Land.
Daughter #2 continues to yell into the dark deserted night, pausing to listen for the echo. "Come on," she entreats. "This is so cool!"
"No," I whine from under my quilt. "Not now." I can't hear any echo and I'm half tempted to accuse her of making it up in order to get me outside.
I'ts so damned easy to get caught up in our day to day stresses. So simple to be bogged down under a hundred different excuses, all of them legitimate.
I'm too tired;
I finally have five minutes to myself;
I just want to be left alone.
But where, exactly, does that leave me? Relaxed and alone?
In less than two and a half years Daughter #2, my third and last child, will go off to college; alone is definitely the operative word here.
I have raised children who appreciate the sound of the ocean. A daughter who laughs at the echo of her own voice in the star-filled night. Isn't this the kind of person I consider myself to be? The kind of mother?
"Okay. Yes, okay." I drag my sorry butt off the couch and out the front door.
"Yell something," Daughter #2 instructs. And I do.
And there, in the distance, I can hear my own words shouting back at me. I smile. And do it again.
Through the trees, the wind carries the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. It's as though they're right next door.
"I've never heard it this loud." Daughter #2's smile lights up her face. "Isn't it cool?"
"Yes." We go back inside. Continue on with our night.
Very cool, indeed.