Between feet

This is my Blogging 4 Books entry.

It's hot and steamy out, 5:00 pm, July, Georgia... NOT, I can assure you, my favorite time to be out of doors, especially when there's cold tea in the fridge and conditioned air to be savored. Wouldn't you know, that's exactly the time yesterday that Napoleon, our dear almost-ten-year-old lab/chow, starts jumping out of his skin, desperate to potty. Again. (It is going to take some getting used to, this "older dog" thing. Nap's had a bladder of steel his whole life, being raised from birth as an apartment dog. But no longer. Have yard, will pee.)

When Nap starts hopping one foot to the other, AJ joins the club immediately. He KNOWS it means he's going to get to play "ow-hide." With two of 'em whining, what can I do? I sigh, grab the Off wipes to towel us down, and step out holding my breath, facing the humidity.

It actually isn't so bad. We have pretty large trees all over our property, so there's at least a bit of shade. And since the birthday, we've got all kinds of new toys to occupy the 15 or 20 minutes that AJ's attention will likely last. The orange bubble gun is his first favorite: Kajillions of grape-scented (yes.) bubbles with just one pull on the trigger! And I get to be proud of his developing manual dexterity -- a "handy" skill for bubbles, har har. He chases 'em down, wanting to blow them this way and that way, and we drain the soap tray twice, then he quickly gets on his new toddler-trike and I push him around the driveway. It's like he's in a race to accomplish as many toys as he can before dinnertime. Next up, the soccer ball.

We're not really a soccer family. Neither DH nor I ever played it, never have watched it much (maybe one high school game when I thought I was crushing on the class soccer guy), and we don't even know anyone who plays regularly. Of course, we both grew up before soccer-moms were soccer-moms, before every mini-van in town had That Sticker on the bumper, before the World Cup was cool. But AJ, he's a little boy, and little boys need! things! to kick and throw, and so that is what he begins to do outside in the evening heat. And then Daddy arrives home. And then interestingly, everything somehow slows down a little bit and the light seems softer.

"Heeyyyy, AJ," DH says in his gentle Savannah accent. "How was your day, Buddy?"

(AJ's very busy placing the ball in an azalea bush, then knocking it down.)

"Kick it to me," Daddy suggests.

And AJ does. He sets the ball down in front of him and taps it with his little foot. Daddy taps it over to me. I steer it gently with a graceful kick try not to trip over it and manage to bare-foot it back in AJ's general direction.

"Now AJ toon," he says to no one in particular. He toddles over, stops, studies the ball, and kicks it again, right to his Daddy. And so our little triangle continues -- DH and me chatting, grinning, AJ trying new moves here and there, and giggling when he has a big success -- for a good long while, until finally I remember that the spaghetti sauce inside needs stirring. I leave the boys to their moment.

They don't come in until later, both a little sweaty and pink-cheeked. I just smile, hoping that in their lifetimes, they'll share a lot like this, between their feet.