An Epic Ride to the Park
It was a pleasant, warm day with the sun in full shine mode. My two grandsons were over for a visit, so I decided to strap them into our toddler wagon and walk them to a nearby park just down the road from my house. Along the way we noticed flowers sprouting from the greening grass. We listened to birds welcoming Spring. The highlight of our ride was seeing a fire engine drive by. William, age 2 ½ and Bobby, age 1 ½ are very easily entertained by trucks and tweets and pinecones. It was a lovely stroll.
Upon arriving to the playground, the boys immediately took off in excitement. Suddenly, I became a nervous nilly. Steps and slides meant opportunities to fall. Running towards swinging swings meant collision with the flying pendulums. Even the play safe mulch floor of the area spoke danger. I mean, what if a fleck of mulch landed in my grandson’s eye? Apparently, the lens of a grandmother is quite different than that of a mother. I had four children, for goodness sakes. I took them to the park all the time. As a mom, I remember sitting on the playground bench watching them frolic about. Sometimes I even brought a book to read. Never did I flinch unless I heard a familiar cry indicating intervention might be necessary. Most times I simply yelled to them from afar, “You’re ok, just brush it off!”
As a grandmother? Forget it. There is absolutely no way I can “let them go” into the danger zone of the neighborhood playground. Apparently, grandmotherhood has made me a psycho.
My stress level increased with sweat beads forming on my forehead. Every scenario for injury raced through my anxious mind. It was impossible for me to climb the steps of the slide with one boy while the other was racing towards the swinging swings. Not only that, how could I send one of them down the slide and not be there to catch them? After about 8 minutes, I called in the towel. I buckled the boys back into the wagon and headed for home.
About three quarters of the way home from the park, after looking up for airplanes and over for sprinting squirrels, I looked at the boys and noticed their socks and shoes were gone. Giddy while playing footsies with each other, I asked, “William, where are your shoes?” And in true brotherly fashion always willing to pass the baton of blame to a little brother, he said, “Bobby threw them.”
And so, we backtracked. A single shoe along the sidewalk’s edge over here led to a balled-up sock camouflaged by growing grass over there. And so, it went. It was like a scavenger hunt for lost footwear. The boys loved the game. Eventually we collected both pairs of shoes and socks, and voila! We were back at the park.
This was quintessential entertainment for my grandsons. Giggling their way through this finding expedition, I wondered how two such sweet and adorable little brothers could be so diabolical? Not trusting their ability to curtail their mischievous fun, I stuffed the socks and the shoes in every available pocket on my person, and we made our way back to my house barefoot style to avoid any more shoe tossing.
When my daughter came to pick up her boys, we laughed in the aftermath of our storied wagon ride to the park. Upon leaving, my daughter went looking for the boys’ socks and shoes. It was then I remembered my pockets. The problem was they were empty. Where, oh where were the socks and shoes? Apparently, the scavenger hunt wasn’t over.