Chase

Four-year-old screams are not cute. Or quiet. Or easy to reverse. We had our share of them today: at a restaurant, at the suggestion of moving away from the CD player, at the delay of a print out of the titles on a new CD for his cousin. But with our emerging spring, I knew the end of the day would lead us outside. No matter if there was screaming before hand, we would get outside, and the edgy feelings of the day would pass. But I had no idea that they would pass into a joyful game of chase. Maybe it has been the snow cover, or the snow-pants cover, but the past few months there has been little chase. Today we couldn't get enough. Elliott ran ahead on the sidewalk. "Chase me, mommy!" Dietrich had his own thing going on with a much-missed stick he discovered in the yard now that the snow has melted, but he joined in eventually. How could he resist? The freedom of running mixed with the certainty of being caught. We chased all the way to the park, where the grass was a bit oozie, but the tire chips around the play equipment dry. And we even left the park without screaming, and chased all the way home, or at least until they found bigger sticks that acted as trains, making stops along the way.