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There is a little playground about a quarter of a mile down the road, hidden in the trees and fences such that we only noticed it was there when we saw a tandem stroller trying to make the cross to get to it.
Today I brought KJ there.
It was ...
She spent a while sitting snuggled in my lap filling my socks with sand, and a more apt metaphor for parenthood I know not. I sang to her, and she jumped and startled every time a truck went by beyond the fence.
After a bit, I put her midway down on one of the plastic slides - there was a sort of twin slide, and I put her on the inner curve - and slid her down. We did that one or two more times, and then she sat at the bottom, dug her toes into the sand, turned, and started to climb.
She clambered up the slide to the first curve, and slid down. And dug her toes in, planted her hands flat on the blue plastic, and kept going. I lay down on the other slide and watched her climb. Every failure made her laugh, gleeful in her experience of unsuccess. She gripped the sides of the slide, pulled herself to her feet, and clambered, a little higher this time, making it partway up the curve before she slid, cackling, down to the bottom again.
Each setback inspired new joy, new experimentation, and each slide to the bottom was a reward.
And there is a lesson.
I stood next to her as she climbed, and as she reached the curve, I rested one hand under her foot, giving her just a little more purchase.
She made it around the curve. I put my other hand under her other foot, and she kept climbing.
We climbed the slide together, like that, her putting forth the effort, the drive, the desire, and me giving her a place to stand.
She reached the top, and sat there, turning back to me, radiant and laughing, triumphant. She had done the work, and I had helped her find her way up.
A more apt metaphor for parenthood I know not.
Today I brought KJ there.
It was ...
She spent a while sitting snuggled in my lap filling my socks with sand, and a more apt metaphor for parenthood I know not. I sang to her, and she jumped and startled every time a truck went by beyond the fence.
After a bit, I put her midway down on one of the plastic slides - there was a sort of twin slide, and I put her on the inner curve - and slid her down. We did that one or two more times, and then she sat at the bottom, dug her toes into the sand, turned, and started to climb.
She clambered up the slide to the first curve, and slid down. And dug her toes in, planted her hands flat on the blue plastic, and kept going. I lay down on the other slide and watched her climb. Every failure made her laugh, gleeful in her experience of unsuccess. She gripped the sides of the slide, pulled herself to her feet, and clambered, a little higher this time, making it partway up the curve before she slid, cackling, down to the bottom again.
Each setback inspired new joy, new experimentation, and each slide to the bottom was a reward.
And there is a lesson.
I stood next to her as she climbed, and as she reached the curve, I rested one hand under her foot, giving her just a little more purchase.
She made it around the curve. I put my other hand under her other foot, and she kept climbing.
We climbed the slide together, like that, her putting forth the effort, the drive, the desire, and me giving her a place to stand.
She reached the top, and sat there, turning back to me, radiant and laughing, triumphant. She had done the work, and I had helped her find her way up.
A more apt metaphor for parenthood I know not.
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(I think this requires the 'bad influence' icon.)
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I got all teared up. Then I sent a link of the post to my roommate.
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<articulate zebra is articulate>
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Yes. Yes, there is, and thank you.
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Rowan is very interested in experiencing new things, however, the playground has always been a love-hate kind of thing. He hates the swings, fears the slides, but loves watching other kids play. He's over the fear of the slides and is overly thrilled with the whole climbing thing ("Rowan climbing!") but he still refuses the whole swing thing.
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