Sometimes, kids say the most profound things when we least expect them, and we must keep our ears open lest we miss their dreams and wishes, their longings and desires.
This morning, my parents and I loaded 3 littles into a canoe and a kayak, and we took off together down Oregon’s Willamette River. The sun was brilliant. The skies azure. The water simultaneously lazy and strong and achingly beautiful, like a mother, tired by her labor, taking a rest, and working, still, powerfully beneath the surface.
We stole downriver, startling Great Blue Herons from their slumber at the water’s edge as we giggled and played and soaked each other with paddles and plastic water toys.
My son said he had to pee then, and so, without a landing or another boat in sight, we said, “Now’s your chance, man.”
He took it.
My son’s urine cascaded into emerald waters, yellow droplets glimmering in the sun as they fell next to the gliding canoe. He experimented with the arc and trajectory. With force and precision control.
And at the end, he shook his head sadly and said, “I really wish I had better range on this thing.”
Which, I think, sums up every boy’s fondest wish:
I really wish I had better range on this thing.