Last night, at 8:30pm, my son asked me if I would go rollerblading with him. It was dark, I was tired, and the day had been full. If I’m being honest, the last thing I felt like doing was putting on rollerblades and heading outside. I had only been on them once or twice in the past year.
Funny, I used to rollerblade up and down 1st Avenue in Manhattan regularly, from Ben & Jerry’s, where I was scooping ice cream in the East Village, up to The Vinegar Factory, where I was waiting tables.
There was a moment where I almost said no. Or “maybe tomorrow.” Or “just for a few minutes.” There was a very logical part of me that wanted to say no. It was late, it was a school night, we had already had a full day, and rollerblading at 8:30pm didn’t make sense. That’s the version of me that keeps things running, that makes sure everything is in order, that thinks ahead and holds everything together. I had laundry to finish, dishes to wash, and work still to do.
But he doesn’t live there. To him, there was no reason not to go. It wasn’t too late, it wasn’t inconvenient, it was just something he wanted to do with me right then.
Something in me paused. I lifted my head up from my laptop, looked at his face and his big smile, and said yes. You should have seen how excited he was and how quickly he ran to the garage and came back with my rollerblades.
We went outside and started circling the block, over and over again. It was simple, nothing big or planned, just the two of us moving through the night. Right away I could tell it didn’t feel as natural as it used to, and I had to slow down and find my balance instead of just moving without thinking the way I once did. At one point I even thought to myself that I should probably invest in wrist guards and knee pads.
At one point he reached for my hand, and we just kept going. Holding hands, we helped each other stay steady. We stopped at a little book library, like a tiny house with a glass door filled with free books. We noticed the stars, we almost fell, we laughed, and we congratulated each other when we stayed upright.
He talked to me the entire time. About school, about his day, about a book he’s reading, The One and Only Ivan. He was so animated, so present, so excited to share it with me. He told me everything that was happening in the story, what he thought about it, what might happen next, and then he said he wanted me to order the book so I could read it too.
That part stayed with me the most. Not the rollerblading, not whether I felt stable or not, but that he wanted me to read it so I could understand it with him, so I could be part of it, so I could be in his world. When he asked me to read it, it wasn’t really about the book. It was about connection. It was about wanting me inside something that mattered to him.
We kept going longer than I expected, longer than I would have if I had planned it. Somewhere in the middle of it, I stopped thinking about how I felt on the rollerblades. I wasn’t thinking about how I looked or how tired I had been just a little while before. We were just moving and talking, fully there together.
And it ended up being one of those evenings that didn’t seem like anything at first, but I know we’ll both remember.
I had my phone with me, mostly because my other two were home and I wanted to be reachable if they needed anything. We were only out for about twenty minutes and just circling the block, but I kept it with me anyway. I’m really glad I did, because I took a picture of us.
When I looked at it later, my mascara was completely smeared under my eyes. Not a little, fully smudged in a way I definitely would have noticed and fixed before. And I laughed, because it felt exactly like the night, a little off, a little messy, completely real, and somehow, that’s what made it so good.
It made me think about how easy it would have been to miss that, to stay inside, to choose being tired, to follow the plan and the version of the evening that made the most sense. And how often we do that without even realizing it.
We choose logic over magic. We choose what’s efficient, what’s appropriate, what fits into the structure of our day. And again, there’s a place for that. I live there a lot of the time. It’s how life runs.
But every once in a while, there’s an invitation out of that. Something small, something unexpected, something that doesn’t quite make sense. Those are the moments that ask something different of us, not to be efficient or productive or to get it right, but simply to be there.
Our kids don’t measure time the way we do. They don’t see the inconvenience or the timing or the checklist. They just know they want to be with us right then, in that moment. And that version of them doesn’t last forever. Their worlds change, what they want to share changes, and the way they reach for us changes.
Last night reminded me that I don’t always have to choose the sensible answer. Sometimes I can choose the one that feels a little unexpected, a little out of place, a little less planned.
Sometimes I can choose magic over logic.
And maybe this isn’t just about kids. Maybe it’s about all of us, those moments when something spontaneous shows up, when your instinct is to say no because it doesn’t feel sensible or rational, and yet something in you knows there’s more there.
My son didn’t need me steady or rested or put together. He didn’t need me at my best. He just wanted me there.
He wanted me in his world.
And I got to be.
Monday Mantra
I choose magic.
Close your eyes, settle into your breath and gently repeat this as you meditate. This week, notice when something small asks you to step out of your routine. See what happens when you choose it.
