The moment I stepped outside in the morning, sweat prickled down my back: a warning that today would be a scorcher. The thermometer already hovered above 90 degrees, and the rest of the day promised no relief. My husband would be gone this afternoon, off helping family with farm chores, leaving me alone with our two kids: my energetic five-year-old son and my curious one-and-a-half-year-old daughter. What to do?!
My husband left around noon, waving goodbye as he headed out the door, his shirt already sticking to his back. I watched him go, feeling a twinge of envy. At least he’d be busy, distracted by the rhythm of farm chores. The house felt unusually quiet after the door shut, the kind of quiet that comes with thick, unmoving air. My son and I lingered in the kitchen, the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the wall clock louder than usual. My daughter was napping at Grandma’s house across the road, giving me a rare moment of quiet with my son.
The heat pressed in from all sides, making even the simplest tasks feel monumental. I suggested, “How about we lie down for a bit and watch a movie?” He grinned, already grabbing his favorite blue blanket with dog prints, a Christmas gift from a friend.
He’s usually resistant to what he calls “adult movies” (a term I gently correct), but after a little coaxing, he agreed to watch “Where the Red Fern Grows.” I hadn’t thought of that story since grade school, and as the familiar scenes flickered across the screen, I found myself transported back to my own grade school days: the smell of the school library, the scratch of pencil on lined paper, the way my heart ached for Old Dan and Little Ann. My son watched with wide eyes, occasionally asking me questions about the plot. By the end, I noticed his body relaxed into mine as we lay on the couch.
After the credits rolled, I took a few quiet moments to write while my son, content and a little drowsy, watched cartoons. Then Grandma called: “Your little one is up and asking for you!” I slipped on my black Crocs, crossed the road, and scooped my daughter into my arms. Her hair was in pigtails and tousled from sleep. “Mama!” she squealed, wrapping her arms around my neck.
Back home, I remembered the starter plants my husband had put in the ground the day before. They’d be wilting in this heat if we didn’t water them soon. So, with my daughter perched on my hip and my son trailing behind, we headed out to the garden. The air was thick and still. We watered the thirsty plants, the cool overspray a welcome relief to our legs, and then gathered a colander of fresh vegetables: spinach, oyster mushrooms, bok choy, celery, and green onions, their colors vibrant against the metal colander.
“These will taste so good for dinner,” I told the kids, and my son nodded, already dreaming up ways to help.
To make the evening special, I decided to order steamed dumplings and crab Rangoon that we would pick up from our favorite Chinese restaurant in town. “A feast!” my son declared, clapping his hands. The promise of takeout seemed to lift everyone’s spirits, a small luxury on a day when everything felt sticky and slow.
While we waited for the restaurant to open, I suggested hesitantly, “How about we run through the sprinkler?” I remembered a failed attempt during the early days of Covid. Back then, our son, just a baby, hadn’t been impressed. But this time, his eyes lit up. “Yes! Let’s do it!”
He changed into a swimsuit and dashed outside to set up the sprinkler while I started dinner: washing and chopping the vegetables, measuring out rice, chicken bouillon, and water into the instant pot. The kitchen filled with the rich aroma of garlic sizzling in oil, followed by the earthy scent of mushrooms and the sharp tang of green onions. I added soy sauce, fish sauce, Sichuan peppercorns, ginger, sesame oil, and a splash of black vinegar in unmeasured amounts, letting the sauce bubble and thicken as the rice cooked.
The instant pot beeped just as I finished tossing the veggies. I turned off the stove, set dinner aside to rest, and quickly changed both myself and my daughter into swimsuits.
Outside, the sprinkler arced across the lawn, droplets sparkling in the golden afternoon light. My son was already shrieking with laughter, darting through the spray. “Come on!” he called. My daughter clung to my leg, uncertain, but after a few gentle passes through the edge of the water, she started to giggle, too. Soon we were all running and laughing, the heat forgotten for a few blissful moments.
We ordered our food and went to town to retrieve it. The air conditioning in the car was a welcome relief, and the kids pressed their faces to the windows, watching the world blur by. After we paid and were returning to the car with our food, a man ran out to give my son a bouncy ball. My son’s eyes lit up as he stretched out his hand to receive it. “Thank you!” he said, clutching the prize as if it were treasure.
Dinner was a celebration: steaming bowls of rice topped with our garden-fresh stir fry, dumplings, and crab Rangoon on the side. We ate together, sharing stories and savoring the simple joy of a summer evening well spent. My daughter insisted on feeding herself, smearing rice and sauce across her cheeks, while my son asked questions about the plot of “Where the Red Fern Grows”. “Why did Little Ann die?” “How does a red fern grow between two dogs?” There was plenty of food left over for Dad when he would return home later.
We had so much fun with the sprinkler that we went back outside after dinner for a second round, all of us laughing and squealing with joy. As the sun dipped lower, we toweled off, spent a couple minutes swinging on the swing set, and headed inside, cheeks flushed and hearts light. The sky was streaked with pink and orange, and the air was finally beginning to cool.
After showers, we settled in to watch another movie that my son had been asking me to watch with him, “Monster House”. I prepared some popcorn, and we all cuddled together on the couch. My daughter snuggled in the crook of my arm while my son watched with wide-eyed excitement, occasionally grabbing me during the scariest parts.
Later, as I tucked the kids into bed, I realized that sometimes the best memories are made on the hottest days, when you find a way to make your own kind of cool. The house was quiet again, the only sound the soft whir of the fan and the even breathing of my children. I lay in bed, grateful for the small moments: the splash of water, the taste of fresh vegetables, the weight of a sleepy child in my arms. Summer, in all its sticky, sun-drenched glory, had given us a day to remember.
Have you ever turned an ordinary day into an extraordinary day? Share your stories below, and subscribe to join a group of like-minded people.
Practical Homesteading 
Leave a comment