This is the first of what will surely be a thousand-part series about life with my sons this summer on the local playgrounds. Lessons and stories abound, and I hardly know where to begin.
But start I must, so here you go . . .
She had the beleaguered look of any new mother–an infant strapped to her chest and a characteristically feisty and adorable two-year-old in tow; and though she had her own very helpful mother with her, it was clear that rest for this new mother was elusive. Up all night with the baby, ministering to a toddler’s myriad needs and the vacuuming during the baby’s fitful daytime naps, she was tired. Oh, so tired.
I suppose a few more details might be necessary: I wasn’t just sitting. I was collapsed–shoulders hunched, legs extended, a novel in one hand, my eyes moving languidly from the latest Pulitzer Prize-winner to watching my sons’ antics from a significant distance. This is new for me–being able to sit, not having to follow them, chase them, remind them to do this and not that. They are almost nine, eight, and four. They are far from fully formed, but their collective playground etiquette is finally at a point where I can relax.
It took me nine years to get here; so, to answer her question, yes, it is so nice to sit. In fact, it’s magnificent.
Probably not the answer she was seeking, but the one that will be hers soon enough.