Let them be wild.
Let them feel the power and glory of holding a garden hose in summer. And let me have clean towels on hand for when they get cold.
Let them be buried in leaves so deeply that their clothes stink of autumnal rot in the fall. And let me muster the energy to finish raking at night, while they are sleeping.
Let them feel the biting cold of snow on their necks from falling off of a toboggan in winter. And let it not be so cold that I freeze when I hand them the warm, dry scarf from around my own neck.
Let them screech at the sudden spill of puddle water over the edge of a rain boot in spring. And let me remember to wash the bag of soiled clothes and not leave it in the front hall for two days like I definitely have never done before.
Let them roughhouse, and learn subtle lessons of fairness and consent while doing so. And let me trust them to not kill each other. Or their dad.
Let them get lost in their own world of imagination. And let me not care if that means there’s only time to feed them a makeshift dinner of random leftovers.
Let them look down at the world after climbing higher than they thought they could, or probably should. And let them see me, cheering for them, while trying not to hyperventilate.
Let their clothes become stained with grass, their shoes filled with sand, and their sweaters coated in wood chips. And let me do a half-assed attempt to remove the stains before deciding they are now part of the design.
Let them exhaust themselves. And let me watch bad tv while they sleep.
Let them scrape their knees, but not break any (important) bones. And let the cool band-aids be on sale.
Let them be wild children, for I have learned it is the wild ones who become adventurous adults.
Let them be wild. And let me remember that they are my greatest adventure.