We have two swing sets now. Our neighbors were given one and set it up in our common front lawn, so now there's one just a few steps down the ravine to the creek and one just a few steps away, just a few steps closer to our front door.
So it's been swingtown of late, especially since we spend a few hours outside-but-at-our-house in the pre-humid, pre-mosquito spring weather.
And today? Today while I wore Thomas and pushed Peter and Lucy on the "upstairs" swing? Thomas began fussing, then screaming, and all the while I pretended that he was sleepy or hungry or gassy or bothered by the wind or having his toes gnawed by badgers. I'd pretend he was anything other than the truth:
screaming for his chance to swing.
For real.
So we walked to the downstairs swing, the one with the baby swing, the one with a six-inch puddle under the swing set, so that Thomas could swing with his brothers and sisters.
I took him out of his carrier* and put him in the swing. Clicked him in with a motherly, "there, is this what all that fuss was about?"
He gave me a look that read, roughly, "yes, crazy lady, and don't pretend you don't know otherwise." He then giggled for the rest of our time on the swings.
So we have another swinging addict in our family. Luckily, Peter's mastering the art of pumping and Lucy has found a few other outside activities that she'll deign to do in between periods of swinging, so perhaps it's not as dire as I fear? Or should I start preemptively icing my shoulder for this summer's case of swingers shoulder?
*Does this make him sound like a dog or a cell phone? Hmm.
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