They began with separate adventures.
The bicycle and the sandbox.
Then they found separate shade, yours and mine.
Then they redefined separate: Mommy's and ours.
And they played for three hours.
They played leap frog, which consists of sloppy jumping, landing, curling, and ribbets.
They were a marching band, using flipflops for cymbals.
Singing loudly, "Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down."
They tipped their water bottles on their faces, splashing their eyelashes.
They put matchbox cars inside socks, swinging them wildly like numbchucks, inventing a game called Pocket Time.
They lost two socks in a tree.
Then they lost a shoe in the tree.
The shoe is saved.
One sock will live there forever. We will visit him.
One sock was retrieved, falling smack into my face, with a matchbox car still in it.
My lip burst and bled.
The last straw in an emotional day after a sleepless night... I cried.
I didn't want to.
Sometimes these things can't be avoided.
"Mommy, are you crying?"
"Mommy is crying?"
"Oh. That makes me cry too."
"Mommy, I will help you. Oh, look. I'll fix that tear for you."
"Mommy, are you happy again?"
"I think you are. See? You are. I love you, Mommy. Be happy like me."
They played house and naptime.
They played climb and run.
They hiked the entire length of the field, and all the way back, hand in hand.
They threw sand.
They threw rocks.
They greeted dogs.
They collected rocks.
They got sunburns.
Three hours will do this.
They skipped their naps.
Bedtime came easily.
Time well spent.