Recess

Every day is recess when you're a one year-old boy, especially when you have a twin. When I look at the boys, the lack of worry in their eyes is striking. Daddy worries; he worries about paying the bills; he worries about doing well in school; he worries that the twins will lose their sense of security; he worries that he worries too much. Colin and Seth don't worry. They want; they want their mama; they want some water; they want the toy bus that their brother has; they don't worry. They spend their days with building blocks, books, and toy buses. They have balls that they push around our small apartment, and they have a small pool that they enjoy pushing the water out of. If they are not playing, their either eating or sleeping, but during the day sleep interferes with play so they tend to avoid it. "Mama, Mama!" they scream as they present some familiar toy that they have magically rediscovered and want their mother to see with the same genuine surprise they do. Mama goes along as much as she can, but she has become a worrier, and cannot see the world as freshly as the boys. She worries that she is not rested enough; she worries that the boys are not napping long enough; she worries.

I remember recess as a child in school. We would play tag or four-square or kickball. There was no worry; worrying came later. By later I mean after school, when I would worry that my parents didn't love each other. I would worry that one day we would leave again, like we had so many times, and Daddy would be alone. I worried that he felt like I didn't love him because I had to go with Mother, but that wasn't true. When Dad would take us to the soccer field, it felt like an all-day recess. There were no worries except winning and losing. Fun was abundant, and Dad was there to see it all. He had fun, too; the smile on his face let me know that.

Sundays are my recess now. I do my best to put all my worries aside, and the boys take center stage. Recess starts early, with the twins coming to wake me up, asking to get up on the bed. Once there, they bounce around with glee, trying to ambush me with body splashes. Their giggles fill the air as they crawl onto my chest, waiting for me to grab them, wanting me to grab them, and flip them back onto the bed. Their crystal blue eyes look down on me with joy and anticipation, their smiles spreading across their small faces. After breakfast, we get ready for church, which is their favorite recess of all. In the nursery they have more toys and more room, and other children to play with. As attached as they may be Monday-Saturday, on Sunday they don't notice when we leave. They just play, secure in the fact that we'll return when it's time to go home. For those two hours, they run and play and scream and laugh; they "cook," they "drive," and they play ball. I go to try and give my worries over to God, but then I worry that He doesn't want them, or that I have them b/c He wants me to have them. Sometimes I leave feeling better; sometimes I leave worried, it just depends. Regardless, when we get home I put my worries away and focus on the imaginations of my two boys, trying to inhabit their world so that they won't know mine. They shouldn't worry now; they should just be boys.