Yesterday we were walking down the street after lunch, heading toward the 7-Eleven to get ice creams. Since the kids were tiny, every time we visit my parents here in Florida, this has been a tradition.

So, I’m walking along with “Tiny” (ie. Svenja) running ahead, hair flapping, blistered, bare white feet slapping the sticky pavement. Greta is bouncing along, oblivious to the stares from the men at the Cuban coffee joint (mental note to self: talk with her again about… well… about MEN).  And little Peter (who we have determined we can’t call little Peter anymore since he is now bigger than Big Peter, my father) comes up to me and grabs my arm.

“You’re a little flubby today, Mami,” he says.

Flubby? I think. I decide to ignore what I perceive as a criticism.

Peter starts waving my arm around like it’s a baton, grasping it in two hands. “How come you’re so soft, Mami?” he asks. “Your skin is just so soft.”

I realize flubby wasn’t a criticism. I imagine him as a grown man, and I think suddenly, I bet he’ll like soft women. I realize that my 14 year old, gargantuan son has hooked his arm in mine and is walking down the street, basically holding my hand. Family down time. Is anything in the world better?

Tags: down time, holding hands, ice cream

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