Puddle Jumper
It’s been a long, hard winter in Iowa. Frequent snows left plowed snow piled high beside streets, and children trapped inside my house with nothing to do but find new things to dump on the floor. Today Des Moines broke 50 degrees for the second time since maybe November, though. To celebrate, I took the kids outside.
We were going outside anyway since today is Abbie’s speech therapy day. The celebration came in the form of a longer trip across the parking lot. We exited the building from the far door so the kids could walk across the entire parking lot and enjoy the fresh air. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s nicer than watching the snow fall outside our window every other day.
The warm temperatures finally put a dent in the snowdrifts along the parking lot. The snow transformed into water, and that water accumulated in the numerous parking lot potholes that appear every winter as reliably as the snow.
I’m still fairly new to this parenting thing, and I underestimated the pothole puddles’ allure to small children. As we trekked across the parking lot, the kids kept finding new puddles and streams to stomp though. Ideally, I would grab my distracted child’s hand and drag him/her away from the puddle before socks got soaked, but with three children and two available hands I was at their mercy to continue walking. I held the boys’ hands and let Abbie walk alongside since she’s older and better able to follow vocal directions. Theoretically.
While I drug the boys beside me, Abbie dawdled through puddle after puddle. I only needed to mutter a single “Abbie” to remind her to keep moving through the first few puddles, but I quickly had to grow more threatening to vocally prod her. I had to growl “Abbie.” I had to shout “Abbie.” I had to shout “Abigail.” After I resorted to shouting “Abigail” repeatedly, a passerby reminded me to use the middle name too so she’d know she’s really in trouble.
As we neared the car, Abbie found the biggest temptation while realizing the impotence of my voice. The boys and I stopped at the car, and Abbie stopped at the edge of a pothole puddle at least two-feet in diameter. I saw the hamster spinning its wheel in her head, and immediately went for “Abigail Leigh.” When I saw that had no effect, I added “don’t you dare.”
That didn’t work either. Abbie walked across the puddle, and seemed surprised when it came halfway up to her shins. I told the boys not to move and ran out to whisk her to the car.
I locked Abbie in her seat while the boys refreshingly listened to me and stood next to the car. I admonished her naughtiness, not just for ignoring me and walking through a puddle, but for wandering in a parking lot, which I frequently remind her is a big no-no. Then I locked the boys in their seats and drove home. Abbie screamed the entire trip, possibly from the scolding I gave her, but more likely from the cold runoff soaking her shoes, socks, and pant bottoms.
We were going outside anyway since today is Abbie’s speech therapy day. The celebration came in the form of a longer trip across the parking lot. We exited the building from the far door so the kids could walk across the entire parking lot and enjoy the fresh air. It doesn’t sound like much, but it’s nicer than watching the snow fall outside our window every other day.
The warm temperatures finally put a dent in the snowdrifts along the parking lot. The snow transformed into water, and that water accumulated in the numerous parking lot potholes that appear every winter as reliably as the snow.
I’m still fairly new to this parenting thing, and I underestimated the pothole puddles’ allure to small children. As we trekked across the parking lot, the kids kept finding new puddles and streams to stomp though. Ideally, I would grab my distracted child’s hand and drag him/her away from the puddle before socks got soaked, but with three children and two available hands I was at their mercy to continue walking. I held the boys’ hands and let Abbie walk alongside since she’s older and better able to follow vocal directions. Theoretically.
While I drug the boys beside me, Abbie dawdled through puddle after puddle. I only needed to mutter a single “Abbie” to remind her to keep moving through the first few puddles, but I quickly had to grow more threatening to vocally prod her. I had to growl “Abbie.” I had to shout “Abbie.” I had to shout “Abigail.” After I resorted to shouting “Abigail” repeatedly, a passerby reminded me to use the middle name too so she’d know she’s really in trouble.
As we neared the car, Abbie found the biggest temptation while realizing the impotence of my voice. The boys and I stopped at the car, and Abbie stopped at the edge of a pothole puddle at least two-feet in diameter. I saw the hamster spinning its wheel in her head, and immediately went for “Abigail Leigh.” When I saw that had no effect, I added “don’t you dare.”
That didn’t work either. Abbie walked across the puddle, and seemed surprised when it came halfway up to her shins. I told the boys not to move and ran out to whisk her to the car.
I locked Abbie in her seat while the boys refreshingly listened to me and stood next to the car. I admonished her naughtiness, not just for ignoring me and walking through a puddle, but for wandering in a parking lot, which I frequently remind her is a big no-no. Then I locked the boys in their seats and drove home. Abbie screamed the entire trip, possibly from the scolding I gave her, but more likely from the cold runoff soaking her shoes, socks, and pant bottoms.
posted by Matt at
11:59 PM
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