Swept Away

"Mommy," my daughter says, "I really want to go outside."

"We can't go outside," I say. "It's raining."

"You've been saying that for a hundred years."

"It hasn't been a hundred years..."

"For my whole life," she says, "for Daddy's whole life, too."

"Let's watch another movie," I say.

"I never want to see another movie again," she says. "We've watched movies forever."

"Not forever," I say, "just this week."

"I want to go outside."

"I'm putting on Sleeping Beauty..."

One hour and forty six minutes later:

"Look Mommy!" My daughter points out the window. "It's a perfect afternoon for a walk!"

"Honey, it's still raining."

"No, I don't think it is."

"What's that, then?" I say. "That wet stuff out there?"

"I don't see anything," she says.

"It's rain."

"Maybe it's just mist?"

"Let's paint a picture. Won't that be fun?"

"It's not healthy that you won't let me go outside," she says. "Four year old girls need to be able to play outside."

"Four year old girls don't play in a winter storm."

"We could have an adventure!" She says. "We could explore exciting Storm Town!"

"Let's paint a picture," I say.

"I'm not happy about this," she says.

Ten minutes later:

"Maybe the parrots need us to bring them a towel, " she says. "The parrots aren't used to all this rain. We can't let the parrots down, Mommy."

"The parrots are fine," I say. "Let's build the biggest block tower we've ever seen!"

"Okay," she says, "that's a great idea."

"It is?" I say.

"And I say we build it outside!"

"We have to wait until it stops raining."

She pauses. Smiles. Hugs me.

"Mommy," she says. "I was just wondering..."

"What is it?"

"Well," she says, "it looks really pretty out there. Do you have a picture for your blog?"

She keeps smiling. She doesn't blink. This is what it feels like when you can no longer paddle and you're finally pulled under.

"I'll get the camera," I say. "You get the umbrellas."