Water balloons and the July moon

My feet hurt. I’m serious. Every day at least once they feel like I’ve walked a marathon, or shopped for five hours straight. It’s been going on so long I’ve noticed myself start to live with it. Even my kids just assume that I won’t play kickball or tag or race them to the front door. It is the most dreadful symptom of aging I’ve experienced in the past several years—full years, featuring a broken collarbone, arthroscopic knee surgery (meniscus repair), and intense hormonal loop-de-loops producing foggy thinking, forgetfulness, rageful outbursts and some serious bloat. As they say, aging ain’t for sissies.

But this foot thing is killing me. It’s wrecking my parenting, even. For instance, I could not explain my reluctance, okay, opposition, to the idea of a sleepover. I have an eight year old; eight-year-olds LIKE sleepovers. Eight is when they really begin, those years of staying up late and talking about naughty things, wondering about the universe outside of school, making believe you’re anybody else you can possibly think of. I agreed to the sleepover largely because I didn’t see a way out, even though the mom is a friend and would have understood if I’d said No, we can’t because, uh, my feet hurt.

The night went smoothly enough, even the part when little brother got kicked out of the games. Probably the most upsetting moment was when I gave the girls a choice of watching a movie or curling their hair, and they chose curling their hair. Though I had arranged for pickup at mid-morning, imagining bleary-eyed crabbies, the girls woke up in pretty good moods, especially considering that bedtime was midnight and wake-up six-thirty. By nine-thirty they got out the water balloons, filling them up at the bathroom sink. Seeing this, I recalled the little hoozie-whatsie that came with them, a small orange funnel. I can ruin a project this way, noticing some minor detail that isn’t quite as it should be. I zero in, determined to do it right, the way it was meant to be done. I forced myself to breathe deeply as I plunged into the basement to find this thing, the key to successful water balloons  (laughable—are there “unsuccessful” water balloons? Really?). Our guest knew exactly what I was talking about; her neighbors did it just last week. When the thing didn’t jump out at me, I began to despair; my assistant went right to the shelves, muttering, “This is where we found them.” I moved a box and there it sat. The small orange hoozie-whatsie.

We grinned at one another. She hurried upstairs while I picked up the phone, postponing  pick up.

When I found them again they had the hoozie hooked up to the hose, which apparently it was made for. They were filling balloons as fast as I could tie them. This went on for an hour, each kid making his own stash. I caused an uproar when I could not resist slamming one into the back of the garage: it splattered with a slap, leaving an oblong stain over the stucco. Very satisfying.

If you’re expecting me to end with how great it all went and how we now have sleepovers every weekend because I’ve learned to lighten up and join the fun—uh, no. The fight was over too quickly, filled with bad aim, balloons that refused to break and others that broke when you picked them up. The grass was left littered with small bits of plastic that would be chewed by the mower in a very un-environmentally sound way. But it was fun. It was one of those moments, like a great meal or an unforgettable performance, where the prep and the anticipation make up for what the endgame lacks.

Eventually our friend went home; there were sorrowful hugs. Little brother was thrilled to have his sister back. Walking the dog later that evening I felt the familiar exhaustion coming up my legs. It was followed by the disheartening recollection that my feet were not what they used to be, and the disquieting idea that I could be the most brilliant mother if this were not the case. If “plan-tar fashee-eye-tis” would vanish as inexplicably as it appeared. I would have more energy. I could enjoy things like sleepovers, and frisbee and ballgames. I turned towards home and in the barely dark sky, between two trees staring at me like my own third eye was the startling July moon. Really? it seemed to ask. Do you really believe that if your feet were well, you’d be well and all would be well forever and always? You would never again dread what might turn out to be fun if you’d give it half a chance? Do feet really have that much to do with such things? Does age?

It was one of those private moments that can happen in the dusk of summer, right in the middle of town, right in the middle of life. I felt somebody winking at me, laughing at how much can be learned when a gal just quits trying so hard.