I didn't have to worry about my one- or two-year-old being catapulted off the mini suspension bridge by a herd of tweens bounding past. No expletives to unteach. No second-hand smoke to assault their lungs.
It had the makings of a glorious outing.
Ready to run off days of being cooped up singing "It's Raining, It's Pouring," Gunny and Annie swung, they climbed, they sprinted up a hill and rolled down. They agreeably stayed within the same general vicinity of one another--the key to my successfully watching the two of them by myself. Eventually they settled on an island of slides that seemed a little advanced, or at least as though users should be more than three feet tall.
But their confidence proved contagious. They were up high, yet contained enough so that I could react to any slip quickly. The slides were bigger than any we'd tackled so far, but on the slow side and less intimidating in practice. Each sibling alternated descending down the giant tube with cheering the other on from the bottom.
Their gold-spun hair stood on end as much from glee as it did static electricity as they wove themselves under, over, around, and through the plastic structure. They played in a kind of harmony so delightful I could barely stand it.
Encouraging. Helping. Interacting. Listening. All while having the time of their lives. I felt almost fully self-actualized as a mother.
Until.
Curly-haired, slide-loving Isabella arrived at the park with her sturdy, also curly-haired grandmother.
AKA: Impostors. Soon-to-be witnesses to the fastest plummet in a parent's pride in recorded history.
My dimple-faced babies locked hands and physically guarded the only steps to their slide-filled fortress.
"Gunny, can you say 'Hi' to the little girl?" I tried.
"No," he scowled.
"Annie, wanna say 'Hi'?"
She shook her head, eyes narrowing upon her opponents, who most likely live within stone-throwing distance of us.
At her grandmother's suggestion, two-year-old Isabella held out a baggie of cheese puffs as a peace offering.
Not even a "No, thank you" from the Cranky Camp.
There was no convincing my two that the turf they were defending was anything but theirs and theirs alone.
Before we got any closer to the scary side of hungry and weary, I bribed my unfriendly brood with juice boxes and got us the hell out of there.
The entire encounter lasted maybe ten minutes. The grandmother seemed understanding but not unhappy to see us go.
On the way home, I tried to explain as best I could to a pair of toddlers that their behavior was rude, and received as close to a sincere apology as they are probably capable.
In the weeks since, I've repeatedly watched Gunnar and Annalie play impressively well with each other, our friends' kids, and other children with which their familiar--with whom they've reached some sort of treaty.
But after yesterday's rocky reunion with a baby cousin from out of town--a full day of what turned out to be roughly equivalent to the Isabella incident on steroids--I can recognize that with
To any past or future innocent victims of their wrath, please accept my sincere apologies.
To all of you more seasoned parents out there, I'm begging you to tell me this has happened to you, too, and how your horror stories can help me teach my kids to be more hospitable. We're going to start with ratcheting Mr. No More Nap's bedtime earlier, but that seems to be more of an exacerbating factor than the root problem. On a typical day, he doesn't have a nuclear meltdown because I turn on a light he does not approve of...
Anyway, I'm ready. Have at it.
