Pitter-Patter

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, goes the rain; pitter-patter go the little feet.  But they aren’t so little and they don’t pitter-patter.  Not in this house.  Here they clomp, tromp, stomp, and stumble.  They trip over Barbies and step on Legos.  They sneak into mommy and daddy’s room every morning and lead the stampede to Daddy when he gets home from work. 

They climb the stairs on both sides of the railing, and they climb every vertical path up bunk beds. They climb up the bookshelf to peek at daddy’s collectible fire trucks.  Then they fall off the bookshelf and get trapped in a cast for a few weeks.  They still climb the bookshelf though! 

 These feet flail as their owner is tickled, then they pause in mid air when the tickling stops and he cries, “Again!  Again!”  The feet chase a ball, push a truck, and they climb out a window all on their own to chase the puppy that just escaped—never mind the snow or the fact that the boots were left behind. 

These feet turn black with the dirt and grime of the outside every summer, and they flee to the playhouse and stand on their tiptoes to flatten out against the fence in the silliest attempt to hide.  Those not so little toes burrow into the sand on the beach and leap gleefully into any available body of water: be it the ocean, the pool, or the muddy puddle next to big sister’s church shoes.  These feet launch a flying leap of a hug after an agonizing absence, but they flee to the corner if there’s still more playing to be done.

And they grow—oh, do they grow!  Day by day and hour by hour, they grow in size and abilities both terrifying and exhilarating.  And when they crisscross to link the legs around my waist as the arms and hands clutch my shoulders and the head is buried into my neck, my own feet feel as though they’ll never touch the ground again.