What's fun? {CELEBRATE This Week: 200}

I'm glad you are here to celebrate! 

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Sam is 11 and an early riser, like his momma. Often it is just the two of us who bring in the day. One morning he hugged me, then opened the curtains and said, "Look at the beautiful world!" I looked out the window and the sun was painting the sky above the tree line. 

I said, "I was thinking about going for a run. Do you want to come along?"

"Sure thing!" he said. 

These days it's harder for me to get out for a run. It seems that my energy is gone before my feet even hit the floor each morning. Instead of feeling invigorated after a run (or a walk or bike ride), I'm empty and ready to drop. The low energy remains all day. I was grateful for the extra motivation to put one foot in front of the other.

In the garage, Sam snapped on his bike helmet and wheeled his bike outside. I asked, "Do you want me to ride my bike or run?"

He looked up from his kickstand and said, "Whatever is most fun for you. It doesn't matter to me."

He hopped on his bike and spun around the driveway. I stood watching him. His response gave me pause...whatever is most fun for you.

He skidded to a stop in front of me and smirked. "I love it when I skid and spin my bike," he said. "Are you ready?"

I was still trying to figure out how to decide whether to go for a bike ride, a walk, or a run. I was filtering my choice through Sam's decision maker: whatever is most fun...

He pushed off and zipped around the driveway again. I watched him ride with no hands, then circle back and pull a wheelie before coasting past me. He gave a little wave. 

I admire the way Sam is carefree and fun loving. Sometimes I get perturbed by his panache for creativity and the mess left in his wake. This summer he has taken over the dining room and dubbed it his "Inventor's Studio." The table is littered with Legos and cardboard; marbles and balloons. He stores large cardboard creations underneath the table. Currently it is the home to the makings of a train engine. The cardboard contraption barely fits under the table. He leaves a trail in his creative wake, much like Hansel and Gretel dropped bread crumbs. Sam leaves scissors and cardboard scraps; lengths of yarn and fallen domino runs, the hot glue gun on the counter, the mat on the table with paint brushes in water.  Often he is no where in sight because he's in the basement working on his train layout or outside, riding his bike, shooting baskets, digging in the back yard, starting a fire in the fire pit...

He's busy having fun.

This summer I'm fighting the culture of busy. Most days I feel like I'm losing the battle I've waged. Is it an impossible fight? 

I watch Sam stand up to pedal and then make a sharp turn and head down the grassy north hill. He laughter adds a sound track to the rising sun. He jumps off his bike and pushes it up the steep hill. "Are you about ready, Mom?" he calls. 

At the top he puffs heavy breaths. "That's so much fun! It's worth  having to push your bike back up. Wanna try it with me?"

Maybe it's not so much about fighting busy, but deciding what to be busy doing. 

"Sure thing," I say and snap my bike helmet on my head.