Inspired

Some days are more inspired than others in this house.

They’re the days when we’re outside exploring under a giant blue canopy, getting up close and personal with wildflowers or wildlife or anything my wild things can discover that isn’t an incessant loop of animation on television.

Yes, we have those days too. The days where the exaggerated cartoon voices of PBS Sprout or Ninjago are the soundtrack to our Monday. Or Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday. Where we don’t leave the house for an entire day, where we have the same clothes on from the day before. Where we eat leftovers from last night’s dinner for today’s lunch, where we walk around with bed head knowing nobody’s going to see us anyway, save for the possibility of a random neighbor or the UPS man. Who cares — I’m pretty sure the UPS man has seen it all in his career.

And then there are those days when a burst of energy inspires me and we go outside to discover new treasures, or re-discover old ones.

This week it was a first-time visit to a historic mill from 1816, built by Native Americans. We roamed the old stone adobe building and gardens, where I’m almost sure all the lizards in California have taken up residence, because we spied about 1,000 of them while there.

Later in the week, we reunited with one of our favorite botanical gardens, where the toddler let off some energy running through shadowy groves, made cool and serene by rows and rows of giant oak trees. We spotted turtles and koi fish in tranquil ponds, played chase with neon orange dragonflies and wild bunnies, which zipped and teased us through the brush.

The baby took barefoot steps in fresh grass, while clapping his hands over and over, as if giving himself a round of applause — and tried to eat purple wildflowers for lunch.

Big brother is in summer camp most of the week and at times I feel a little sad that he misses out on these mid-week adventures with us. And then I remember he’s visiting places like Disneyland and splashing around in water parks with his buddies, having adventures and making memories and friendships all his own.

I love that he forges friendships with new friends and reconnects with old ones independently each summer, sealing their camaraderie with a handmade friendship bracelet around the wrist. Because, as he approaches 7 years old, that is much more exciting to him than hanging with his mom and baby brothers all day long.

Next week, if the stars are aligned just right and mercury isn’t in retrograde and there are no summer storms on the horizon — I’m making another attempt to shuttle all three boys back to the beach again. It might just be our final trip there this summer.

May the force be with us.

Summertime

Summer is without a doubt my favorite season.

I think Janis Joplin probably sang it best: “Summertime, child, the living’s easy.”

I love living in the sunshine. I feel as if  negative feelings defrost in the sunlight, bringing out happiness and joy and a willingness  to live hard and play hard, to be wild at heart. Summer smells like childhood to me, like sweet watermelon, ripe peaches, pineapple-coconut suntan lotion, chlorine, saltwater and vanilla ice cream. We get so much sunshine in California, yet I never tire of it. Never. I would spend 365 days a year under the sun if I could, cooling off in a swimming pool in someone’s backyard, a smoky grill nearby, smelling of charcoal and a hint of gas. Because, to me, that’s summertime.

That’s happiness.

I grew up living the quintessential California lifestyle near the beach. My sister and I and our friends spent entire summers by the Pacific Ocean, barefoot, our noses and shoulders sore from too much sun, our long hair braided with sand and salt down our backs, twisted and knotted like driftwood. We spent our summer months running wild through crashing waves, our lithe bodies browned and bruised from falling down and getting back up, only to be knocked down once again. I felt fearless back then, getting tumbled and tossed inside waves like laundry in a dryer, not caring if I was held under for what seemed like minutes.

In ways, I can’t imagine watching my boys do this now. I have panic attacks when I see them enter water as it is, their skin preemptively doused in sunscreen, wearing hats and swim diapers, with flotation devices nearby. Modern parenting involves a series of cautions and precautions and protective gear. I fear all sorts of things for them, drowning being the worst. Did my parents worry about us like this back in the 70s, when we frolicked alone on the beach? I doubt it. Back then, I think ignorance was bliss.

My boys already have such a different childhood. I fear their lives are centered too much around screens and being indoors. To get to the beach, we drive miles and miles in frustrating traffic, searching for a space on the overcrowded sand that isn’t taken by another family with the same idea. We orchestrate an entire day around the beach, packing endless bags and gear for the kids, only to feel like we’re forcing ourselves to have fun once we get there, because all the effort put into just getting there needs to feel justified.

As a child, it was all so organic, sometimes we walked to the beach and we didn’t take much with us, just a willingness to play and our towels. We didn’t wear sunscreen or hats. We let our skin burn, we let ourselves fall hard on sand and rocks that cut our toes until they sometimes bled, saltwater from the ocean our hydrogen peroxide. We showed up on the beach and played for hours until the sun started setting and our parents had to tear us away.

As the boys get older, I’m so aware of the stark contrasts in how they are growing up and how I grew up as a child. They are living so much more of an isolated, urban existence and I want more for them. I have to laugh when I “arrange” summer play dates with other parents, or while signing my oldest up for summer camps with hefty fees, that guarantee calculated “fun” for your child. It makes me sad at the same time. Gone are the days of allowing your kids to leave for the neighbor’s house in the morning and not seeing them again until they came home for dinner, dirty and sweaty and exhausted. That was how I spent my summers as a child, running the streets with our pack of neighborhood ragamuffins, no hovering helicopter parents to be found.

With all of our cautiousness, are our children that much safer today?

I have to tear my own boys away from TV screens and iPads and iPhones and apps, like my own mom used to have to tear us away from building clubhouses in trees, from playing ditch ‘em in the streets until dark.

Although I find myself doing everything to prevent it, deep down, I want my boys to get dirty and sunburnt and windblown, with bruises on their shins, this summer.

I want them to scrape their knees on rocks and shells and hunt for sand crabs until sunset.