No matter who cried louder or tattled first, my mom almost always knew the real story of whatever transpired between my sister and I, even from two rooms away. As she read the paper or balanced the checkbook, she could easily glance up and see our every move in the reflection on our dining room armoire.
I didn't quite realize it until I read "Helicopters Landing" on BlogHer, but I am a second generation (or more) periscope parent.
My son and daughter--too young to go outside alone, but big enough to entertain themselves in the living room--play the most creatively and kindly with me lurking just out of sight, taking care of whatever I need to as quietly and inconspicuously as possible.
How else would I overhear a gem like, "Annie, won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"
Of course, I love joining in on a good Hokey Pokey or being invited into the kids' couch fort. But I'm OK with not actively playing with them all day every day.
But outside our trusty baby gates, I feel a stronger urge to hover. Most days, I can resist, if for no other reason just to hear the squeals when I let them loose from their stroller. It's good practice for all of us. I get to try out various tones and tricks to get them to obey--and (almost) every time, they get a little better at understanding their boundaries and following the rules.
It's not always pretty, and I can live with that.
This Thanksgiving was probably the first party where Brian and I didn't have to each be in charge of following one child's every step. We let them play in the front room with their cousins, wander into the kitchen to grab more cherry tomatoes, and generally come back to us on their own.
Getting to sit and chat amongst adults is becoming less and less novel. It's really quite nice.
Just the other day ... Oops. I'll have to get back to you in a bit. Getting some blips on my sonar.
