Matching Tracksuits

What is normal in a house with kids? In the late spring, it’s hard to determine what might be “normal.” School, winding down, is in flux. The yard is in constant need of attention, with a thousand and one things calling out — berry bushes need covering, hedges need trimming, tomatoes need staking, peas need something to climb on.

So what is “normal”?

Ironically, with a now-three-year-old, it’s a first around every corner. A first time bouncing the ball repeatedly and catching it. Not a first time watching it roll down the hill. But a first time walking down alone, with Tata standing watch at the edge of the driveway.

And it’s a day of not-firsts leading to firsts. The Girl cleaning her room, alone in the house, semi-fine with it, semi-fussing about it as everyone else works outside.

“You’ll hear everyone outside from the window,” I reassured. Well, not everyone. I was back working on the car — another “normal” when you own a Volkswagen is that there’s always something going wrong — but everyone else was in the front yard. Eventually the fussing subsided, the room got cleaned, quite well, and the Girl joined us. Them.

Afternoon: washing the cars. The Girl didn’t want to “help” until she found out she could get wet. And so she came bounding out of the house in her old swimsuit and helped wash the car. Sort of. A bit more playing.

Well, total playing. I wanted to do it all myself because my normal hasn’t been so normal until recently. But that’s normal.

The Boy joined us. Again, normal. He squealed — literally — every single time he got a shot of water.

“Daddy, squirt me again!”

Finally, normal again.

We have two birds’ nests in the downspout of our gutters. One is at the back of the house, in a very safe location. We just leave them alone every year, and we get a good view of the hatchlings as a result.

The other nest is in the downspout next to our raspberry and blackberry canes. We have to put up netting to keep the birds out, and so the last thing I really want is to enclose them in the netting. With the blackberries blooming, it’s only a matter of time before we start putting the nets back up.

My first effort to evict them was a failure: I put nails in a board, much like anti-pigeon devices one might find in cities, and set the board in the downspout. They build around it. So I’ve been going out and knocking the nest down, hoping they’ll get the hint. But they’re stubborn and rebuild. I took some bleach water while they were out and soaked the nest, thinking the odor would repel them. It did, for a while.

I’ve got another solution in mind, but in the meantime, I just go out and knock the nest down before they really settle in. “Just leave them alone,” K says, but it’s a battle I will win.

So the day begins with an eviction, and then another battle: thick, long, heavy grass. The Boy comes running up, walking beside me as I struggle with the tall grass before deciding to raise the mower deck to its highest level for an initial trim.

“I’m going to help you!” cries E, squeezing his way between me and the mower.

It slows the process considerably, but it’s worth it. We work out a deal: he helps one direction, then races me back to the other end. We’re both happy with the compromise.

After dinner, it’s time for a little exploring.

The azaleas are in full bloom now, and the kids love picking up the fallen blossoms (and picking them from the bush if I don’t keep a close watch), so between the swing, the creek, and the blooms, it’s paradise.

The leaves are all out in the small forest we are lucky enough to call our backyard. They’re still curled and small, but it’s a sign that spring is finally here to stay. In theory. “We could still get some really cold weather, maybe even a freeze,” says our neighbor. “It’s happened.” It might have happened, but it can’t happen this year — not this year. We’re all too sick of the cold, the gray, the blah of winter in South Carolina, where it’s never cold enough to make a real winter but just cold enough for a while to make it miserable.

But spring comes, and the leaves of the trees return our virtually complete privacy, and we spend all our time outside. Or as much as possible.

E, as we’re rounding up watering pails for Mama, looks at me and says in all earnestness, “Daddy, I love being outside.”

With our backyard, which includes a stream at the bottom of the property, and the fact that our neighbors don’t mind if we use their backyard as well, it’s no wonder:

we go exploring, throw rocks, sticks, and seed pods into the water, and hide in forts — it’s a true blessing that we have such a place for our children to play.

First, of course, there’s always swinging. It’s virtually non-negotiable.

E takes a few cars with him down to the swing — everywhere, actually — and he’s able to entertain himself as L takes her turn in the too-small-swing.

We stay out until bath time, which is also when the sun now sets. As the days grow still longer, it will be more and more challenging to get the Boy into the house.

“But I want to play!” Now, at least, nature helps.