I swear, it was like a movie from the 1950's - watching my boys that afternoon, as a timeless scene as old as boyhood itself unfolded before me. Boys big enough to say "But mama, we can do it by ourselves." And a mama not quite ready to let them go past eye-shot yet.
A recent storm had blown down lots of pine tree branches in our neighborhood. And one of them had seen several "big ones" down along the bus route. "Can we go get them mama? I have an idea."
My industrious little boys saw this as a grand opportunity spread out before them. The plan was this...ask people to pay them for the removal of the branches, drag them back to our yard where they would build a fort with said branches. And buy candy (that mama won't let them have) with the money. I know...industrious little ankle biters.
So in the blink of an eye they were off, with Scout the wonder dog hitched to the wagon and a mama following 200 paces behind, camera in tow. Close enough to warn them of cars at intersections. Far enough behind to let their imaginations run where they might without interference.
Belive me, it took all I had in me to resist stepping in and helping them drag those huge branches back to our yard.
And I watched in amazement as they entered a world of their own creation. They wrote a story where they were the generals. And the heroes. A world where pine cones were armed missiles and a few sticky pine branches protected from all that was bad in the world. A world with its own language and its own rules. A world without mamas telling you to pick up after yourself or wash the sap off of your hands.
I felt privileged to witness time stand still that afternoon.
Thank you my sweet boys for letting me tag along. For giving this mama a tiny glimpse of what your worlds really will look like someday...the valiant men you will become. I hope you know you taught me a valuable lesson that day about how to stand back and let go a tiny bit. To watch from afar...just close enough to be thankful of the little men before me.
**And yes, we now have $1.75 burning a hole in our pocket. Swedish fish anyone?**