The big news from our beach trip Monday was that all of the children couldn't get enough of the water. From the start to the end, they wanted to run in the surf and splash in the waves and - even Thomas - drink the salty water up.
It's a far cry from our first beach visit of the summer, where both Peter and Lucy whimpered about the loud waves and the crashing waves and the ocean-ness of the ocean.
Today, we romped around an indoor playground we've visited a few times. It's one of those hamster-maze set-ups, with tunnels and ramps and lots of hidden places, and it's virtually inaccessible for mamas carrying babies. Our last visits were fun, to be sure, but there was always a neediness lingering behind the smiles - Lucy needing a little help physically maneuvering some of the structure's trickier parts and Peter needing someone to be with him to have the courage to explore on his own.
This visit was much more children running free, on their own, while I tried to keep Thomas from being lost in the ball pit or trampled by the big kids. I kept my eyes open for them, but it's tough spotting in a maze of plastic tubes. I kept my years open for their distressed cries, but how could I possibly hear their voices over the other shrieks and squeals of the two dozen other children at play?
Even if I could have heard their voices over the other children, I wouldn't have heard them, because there were no distressed cries, no nervous children, nothing but climbing up and sliding down, over and over and over and over again.
Lately, Peter and Lucy have been all about meeting new friends and playing with new people. Peter especially isn't the most outgoing of children (wonder where he gets it?) and it's usually so open to new social experiences. Yet over the past two or three weeks it's been "new friend" this and "new friend" that, to the point that he's off making new friends at the playground without any coaching or coaxing or planning from me. For some kids, that's just another day at the park, but for Peter it's a big step forward, and it shows that his comfort boundary is expanding ever so slightly.
Kevin and I are sometimes accused - publicly or privately, directly or indirectly - of "not pushing" the kids. Depending on the context, it could mean not pushing them to spend time at a babysitter, or away from us, or doing thing that scare them, or talking to adults they don't know, or forcing them to sleep on their own, or to just stop needing us so very much.
And, depending on the context, Kevin and I have concerns that we're perhaps "not pushing" the kids enough. Then, I see how each grows and blossoms in his own time, and I remember that these are children, not flower bulbs; I can't force them to bloom when they're not ready. They do it in their own time, and when they do, it's still magical.
So much of being a parent is being prepared to meet your children where they are, not where you want them to be. I forget this every now and then, lost in the midst of other parenting messages thrown our way, about how children ought to be and what "normal" really is.
In our family, "normal" just might be the ability to say, "I'd like to sleep in the baby's crib with my sibling, and cover up in my awesome quilt, even though it's 85 degrees outside."
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