Originally written: September 22, 2015
Do you remember the parachute from elementary school gym class? I remember still the gymnasium at Avondale Elementary School and the whiteness of our gym teacher’s hair, although I can’t quite picture her face. The parachute was colorful, at least in my mind’s eye, and we used to put something on it and make waves while the object on top popped like popcorn. Or we’d balloon it up like a mushroom and sit inside of it using our little bottoms for anchors.
My brother-in-law jogged my memory the other day when he brought the same kind of parachute to the boys’ birthday party. It didn’t make it out of the bin that day, but today it made an appearance. We spread it out on the back lawn and the kids bounced from one color to another.
We played all sorts of games and none of them were very creative, but I know my kids thought I was a rock star for engaging in the parachute antics. We pretended each color meant something different and then we’d hop from one to the next. They’d run in circles and shriek with joy at all the fun we were having. Joy.
“Make waves, Mom! More waves!” they’d shout and then giggle to one another.
The world kept moving outside our little yard, but inside time stood still. We were in our own little Neverland, I suppose, and although I was participating, it was like part of me stood over to the side to eavesdrop.
My three sweet children are growing up, and I’m missing it sometimes with too much busyness.
Slow down, I thought.
I took a picture of them—their three heads all piled together in the middle.
“That’s frameable!” my sister later texted me.
And it is. In my mind, forever.