Acting On Impulse

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I have an impulse on the deserted playground. A lunge, left hand, right hand, foot, foot, stick the landing, finish. A cartwheel.

Tulip bulbs and crocuses stay buried in their muddy holds, they know better than to rise above just because the sun is shining. The bright sunlight fooled me into thinking we could spend time outside, though the wind and temperature reminiscent of March now convince me of otherwise.

We have come to this playground for a little uninterrupted family time, hiding out from phone calls, email and folding laundry. Dates, medicines, factoids and prognosis statistics pop to the forefront of my attention, almost to say, “Don’t forget about me! Wait, and me! Don’t forget about me!”

The day before, Hubby and I scheduled his thyroid removal operation, after weeks of inconclusive tests and biopsies, consultations with doctors and late night Google searches.

Back at the playground, Hubby is now pushing Youngest Daughter, the four year-old Princess Golden Curls, on the swings. Her calls of, “Higher! Higher, Daddy!” sound across the playground while Eldest Daughter climbs up and slides down the winding, yellow plastic slide. 

I have an impulse though I haven’t done a cartwheel in years. But the muscle trace is practically hard-wired. In the days when I was a cartwheeling girl in love with Wonder Woman and Judy Blume books, I was also an avid gymnast and on my hands as much as I was on my feet.

A lunge, left hand, right hand, foot, foot, stick the landing, finish.

“Wow!”

The kids are impressed. This is a rarity.

“Do it again!”

I am cool, another rarity.

I pop out another cartwheel, this one better than the last.

Before I know it, we three are doing cartwheels and handstands, shirts untucked and slipping towards our chins with each tip. We are laughing, our hands and fingers cold from the barely thawed ground. Some landings are harder than others; Eldest Daughter favors the flat back landing with a chin-banging thud. Youngest Daughter’s feet flit off the ground, little donkey kicks and lands on her knees.

I want to be this mother, somebody fun and present, not preoccupied with worry, stern with obligation. If this is how my children remember me on this day on this barren playground then I have succeeded.