On Saturday, we spent much of the day not even knowing where our son was or what he was doing.
And that's the way it used to be when we were young.
On Saturday, we dropped the boy off for his first extended play date, with friends we trust, friends who "get" his wily little ways. The girl stayed with a trusted babysitter. And off we went on a day date.
We hiked. We ate. We talked. We shopped for appliances. We did the things that are more
challenging to do with the tiny humans in tow.
And we never once worried about our son.
We picked up the girl from home and went to join the boy at the birthday party that extended from his play date. He wasn't anywhere to be seen when we arrived; so, we grabbed one of the offered adult beverages, found some friends, and started talking.
And that's exactly what I remember my parents doing.
Someone told us, "Oh, he's inside with the boys."
He showed up after a bit, told me he was staying
forever at D's house, and went on about his life. Another mother helped him get some lunch, while I watched from afar, amazed at his willingness to get help where he needed it, not solely relying on me. Only when he crashed into D on the trampoline did he need a hug. He got his hug and moved on with his play.
We circulated, talked with the other parents of preschoolers, drank wine, caught up, ate cake.
The girl fell asleep on my chest in her carrier. I kissed the top of her head and hugged her warm little body.
No one
really kept track of their kids, because we were
all keeping track of them together.
And I remember having dozens of parents I could trust.
The boy asked D's dad to replace the battery in the drive-on tractor, the battery my son apparently wore down to
nothing while driving it around for two hours. The kids
flocked to the resurrected tractor. At one point, D and A were in the seats, with C and J piled on top of them, all four them going for a ride.
And I remember flying down the driveway on the toy Winebago, with at least five kids, which was at least four kids too many, trying to ride it, too. I have a scar to accessorize the memory.
The kids moved on to something else. They ran. They jumped. They crashed. They threw the football. They got snacks and juice and chips and help from every parent there. They ran inside, far out of view, and climbed into tents on top of bunk beds.
And I remember the sheer joy of the first of my independence. Of running until I had no breath. Of giggling and laughing under the blankets. Of begging my mother for more time, even when she hadn't told me we were leaving.
The sun lingered. The warmth of the day remained. We told
the boy he had only five minutes, and that stretched into twenty.
We finally gathered his toys, his sweatshirt, and his wayward shoes. We piled into the car.
He fell asleep within an instant.
And I remember the sweet exhaustion of a day well played. And I hope for more of this, much, much more. For the chance for a blissfully full childhood. For the chance to be the adults I revered.
For memories that shape a lifetime.
