It’s so strange to me that my boys think California is, well, home. Jameson think it’s normal that we live a few blocks from no less than 5 coffee shops. William’s feet are brown from days and days and days of sunshine. They don’t see palm trees and think “exotic”, the way I still do. They’re even unimpressed by redwood trees.
Every once in awhile something will happen that sort of drives the point home. Like this morning, for instance. During the night, the skies opened, and our rainy season officially began. When Jameson came out of his room this morning, he bounded to the window, his face beaming, and exclaimed, “Rain!”
Really? My kids are going to grow up excited about the first rainfall?
Amazing, isn’t it? Memories are special because of seasons, not places. I don’t mean seasons such as spring, summer, winter, and fall, although they come into play. I mean seasons of life. Those seasons hallow our memories somehow.
Childhood — such a special precious time. Such a marvel…
This morning when you were in the shower, we cuddled on the couch and watched the rain together out the window.
Me: Do you remember when we woke up early, just me and you, and sat out on the front porch of nana and papa’s?
Jameson: Yes Dad.
Me: What did we do that was so special?
J: We watched the rain.
That is funny.
precious!!