Breathing echoes like a heartbeat in my ears. It is mine. And it is deafening.
Grass, cool and clumped from the mower, is sticking to my heals. I look right, left, my blinking as dramatic as a secret. The drum of my pulse beats heavy when I see my opponents, but deep inside I hear the driving build of Eminem’s Lose Yourself, and I do.

“Hut,” I say with a pause. “Hibbity-hut. Hike!”

Suddenly the only music I hear is “The Circus Song”. My hands release the football to my oldest daughter. It bounces off her fingers and boinks her nose while our third teammate is doing running somersaults and headstands. This, I do not think, is the best plan of attack, nor anything we discussed in our huddle. Alas, I charge at Chase with bear-hug aggression. He is quick, faster than me in his distracting neon shirt but I stay focused. However, I am too late. It is finished. And in our bloody fight we have lost the play.

“The plan was that I would kiss you,” I tell him.

“Oh I thought, Wow she’s really upping her defense and getting in my face.”
He bobs his head the way that’s made me laugh for 14 years. Still out of breath, I bend with laughter.

Our son is recapping every move, his oversized Manning jersey hanging loose around his arms while his words whistle through the gap in his teeth. “I was like, rauogh!” He twists with a funny face so his sister will laugh. She’s too busy twirling.

“One more and then it’s bath time,” I say.
“Noooo!” They howl not because we are almost going inside, but because they hate to smell good. Apparently.

The sky grabs me, its pinks and oranges mimicking all the beauty I feel in this fenced yard. Overwhelming. Alive. Fulfilled. Fiercely in love.

The girls are ready. I have them both agree to take a break from cartwheels long enough to beat the boys. I hush my voice to block out the enemy.

“All right, I’ll pass it to you and then you hand it to her. Help me guard them.”
They nod, smiling at my seriousness. I pretend they are really in it with me, that we flex our girly muscles and shout, Break!

“Hut. Hibbity-hut. Hike!”

I toss. She hands it off. Little one has the ball and is making a run for it. My best efforts to man-handle my husband are seemingly working now that he knows he might get a smooch out of all this chaos. Wait, there’s…there’s crying. Who’s crying?

“Ohh, sweetheart,” he says. Not to me. He rushes to her as she wails.
“What happened?” I ask.
“He tagged her but kinda pushed.”
“I see. Not ready for football?”

I scoop her into giggles. “Baths!”
“Uuuuugh.”

Oh yes. If not for you then for me.

We gather sandals rubbed thin from long days and dusty camping trips. Put away camo and Tinker Bell chairs alike. Our garage door descends with the sun and I hear squeals upstairs.

“Start the water!” I yell. As in, quit racing around naked.

It’s when I start stacking clean plates, drips sneaking to my wrists from the dishwasher, that I say, “This was the best night of my summer.”
“Mine too.”