We’re living in the time of covid. There’s another surge right now; it started just before Christmas, and with the cold, rainy wether and holiday gatherings it’s cruising along. As a result, I’ve been somewhat terrified of the kids injuring themselves. We’ve never had to go to the emergency room. It seems that now would be a terrible time to start.
I made myself worry even more when, on an early morning walk, I stepped onto one of the rocks scattered throughout our local park—for people to perch on or to create borders—and promptly and unceremoniously slipped right back off, my hiking sandals finding no purchase atop the boulder made slick by the morning’s fog and the previous night’s rain.
Things got so bad—in my own mind—that a few days back I did one of the thing I try very hard never to do. I asked the kids to be careful when they were playing on the rocks. It was ridiculous. I regretted having said it immediately. The kids grew up in that park. They know every single rock like an old friend—better than I ever will.
Then today, it all got better. The sun wasn’t up yet, the horizon was just beginning to subtly glow as I peered through the fog at the six year-old. She was doing one of the games she and her sibs invented in the park; jumping from the top of one rock to the top of its nearest neighbor. Sometimes the neighbor wasn’t very nearby. That’s when I’d catch glimpses of the kid launching and then gliding through the air, landing without even a twitch atop the next boulder.
After a bit, she reached the end of the chain, and leapt down to the ground, landing as securely, as ruggedly, and as gracefully as you please.
Everything was better instantly. For a few moments, I was reminded that everything is going to be alright. The kids developed their own competencies, and they’re going to be just fine being the people thy’ve made themselves into.
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