The past two weekends have been nothing but rain. Not a gentle drizzle that makes you want to curl up with tea, but the kind of steady Cape Town downpour that soaks everything through and leaves puddles stretching across pavements. And of course, my two boys, ages six and one, wanted nothing more than to be outside in it.

Big brother is at that age where being indoors feels like a punishment. He wants to run, climb, and race, while baby brother just wants to follow along with his wobbly little steps, convinced he’s as big as his sibling. And me? I was the “mean mom.” Call me modern, call me overprotective, call me overly cautious, but I put my foot down. There was no chance I was going to deal with snotty noses, hacking coughs, or a week of sleepless nights while the baby wheezed in my arms. Absolutely not.

I told them firmly: Inside it is. After all, they’re not exactly short on things to do. We have toy bins overflowing, puzzles missing only a piece or two, colouring books, blocks, and even the occasional indoor fort when I can muster the energy to drag out the blankets and chairs. Surely that should be enough.

But then something funny happened. As I listened to their little sighs and dramatic pleas to “just go outside for five minutes,” I suddenly found myself slipping back in time. My own rainy childhood days came rushing back. We didn’t stay inside when it rained, not a chance. We played drie blikkies, kennetjie and gatties (marbles) were the best thanks to the muddy patches that could now easily be transformed into pocket holes. Sometimes we even climbed trees while drops of water still clung to the branches. And the smell! I can still remember how the air after the rain carried this earthy, almost sweet scent, something that made everything feel alive.

Now here I sit, decades later, with the roles reversed. Instead of begging to go outside, I’m the one scolding. “Shoes on!” “Put on another top, it’s cold!” “No, you can’t just run barefoot on the wet grass.” It feels almost ironic. I used to be the barefoot child splashing through puddles, but I’ve become the mom who keeps them bundled up in bed watching a movie, trying desperately to channel their boundless energy into sitting still for 90 minutes. Any parent of boys will know exactly how laughable that is. Energy doesn’t get contained it just shifts into louder, wilder bursts.

I suppose that’s motherhood in a nutshell: part nostalgia, part practicality, part guilt, and part sheer survival. I want to give them the freedom I had, but I also want to protect them from every sneeze and sniffle. 

So here we are, two weekends into grey skies, me trying to outwit the weather with board games, blanket forts, and popcorn bribes. And the boys, forever plotting their next escape into the wide, wet world outside.

tracy-lynn.ruiters@inl.co.za

Weekend Argus

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