The Cannonball Kids

I’m sure you’ve had those parenting moments where you secretly pat yourself on the back for the great job you are doing with your own children.  Usually those moments creep up on us when we witness someone else’s children behaving miserably.  I had this experience recently.  It went something like this.

We had decided to take Matt (Dad) for an early Father’s Day Getaway Weekend.  We didn’t go far, just downtown.  The weekend was filled with lots of food, shopping, bowling, carriage rides, and of course, swimming.  What is a family getaway without a hotel swimming pool?  If you ask my kids, it doesn’t even qualify as a vacation if swimming is not involved.

Upon check-in, okay maybe a few minutes after, the girls had changed into their swimsuits and were impatiently waiting on the couch in our room to head down to the pool.

With pool toys in hand we road the fancy elevator down nine floors to the pool.  Score!  We had it to ourselves.  Matt and I settled in some comfortable lounge chairs with our e-readers and were soon lost in our books while the girls enjoyed having the pool all to themselves.  It was nice—a perfect Friday evening.

All of the sudden, out of nowhere, the pool door bursts open abruptly and two siblings (a boy and a girl) ran from the door and canon-balled into the four-foot pool.  It was startling.  I sat in shock with my mouth open and heart racing.  Where did they come from?  Izzy and Maddie stared at us in horror.  I could see the questions in their eyes.  What is up with that?  Should we stay in or get out?  Who are these cannonball kids anyway?

Then the screaming started—piercing, fingernails to the chalkboard–screaming.   Not that pools are supposed to be quiet, but this was migraine-provoking noise.  Looking up from my book and observing the situation, I realized it was the boy who was screaming.  Honestly.  Boy up.  You scream like a girl.  Those were my thoughts.  I didn’t actually speak that out loud.  I have some tact.

We could only take so much.  The girls could only take so much.  And after Matt leaned over and said, I wish one of them would just hit their head, I knew it was time to leave.

Ah, dinner.  A nice, quiet dinner in the hotel restaurant.  We admired the architecture.  We watched other guests.  A sweet, older couple sat sipping wine by the window.  A group of young men were gathered at the bar—perhaps a reunion of some sort.  And then it happened.  In walk, I mean skip, the Cannonball Kids.  Now surely there’s a parent around somewhere?  Nope.  No one.  I see them talk to a server.  Then they discover the twirly chairs.  Yep, you know the ones.

A few minutes later, they walked out carrying their own heaping portion of a Chocolate Mousse Torte.  Let’s just say the four of us shared one.

The next morning, I was waiting for an elevator to take me down to breakfast.  The girls and Matt had gone ahead.  The door to the elevator opened.  Guess who?  Cannonball Kids!  And look the boy is holding a toy shot gun.  Super.  Of course the elevator stopped on almost each floor.  And each time the girl got out to peek at that particular floor.  They’re all identical; I wanted to scream.  Finally I made it to the bottom floor, and breakfast.

We seemed to run into the Cannonball Kids all weekend.  Each time a different setting, but the same behavior.  My girls talked about them.  I pondered what their story was.  I think I saw a mother?  And maybe an older brother?  Why didn’t they correct them? Or tell them to shape up?

I will most likely never know the answer to that question.  And that’s okay.  Maybe it’s not really my answer to know.  Yes, those children were misbehaved.  Yes, they needed some boundaries.  And yes, I stood in judgment of a situation I knew nothing about.

And then, like the wave from a cannonball jump, it hit me.  God loves those kids.  He loves them.  He really loves them.

Maybe I need to love others better.