I Felt Old and Young at the Same Time

So, my brother had locked the shed keys in the shed on Monday, and we had called over a neighbor to cut the lock on the door so I could trim the weeds in the backyard basin. The neighbor brought a kid with him. His name was Joel, he was two years old, I'm guessing he was the neighbor's nephew, and he was one of the cutest kids ever. Curly blond hair, with the start-stop walking of a toddler and maybe the most perfect cheeks when he smiled.

Moving away from the cuteness...

While the door lock fought with the neighbor's saw (the lock was so strong, he had to get a new saw bit!), Joel & I started talking. Of course, it was a short conversation, because most of his words weren't fully formed, but it was also short because he saw our playground. I encouraged him to climb on it, remembering how big it felt to me when I started playing on it in kindergarten. (And he was two!) I brought him over to the drawbridge, showed him how to climb the ladder, and put him on one of the swings.

The swings proved to be the harsh separation between my childhood and my adulthood. I had never noticed before that the plastic coverings around the swing chains had holes, exposing the rusted links. I did now. So, when he started to swing, my first thought was not, "I wish I were that short again so I could enjoy this swing as much as he is." Instead it was, "Tetanus."

When he continued climbing on the playground, my first thought was, "Splinters."

When he wanted to slide down the slide, my first thought was, "Bird poop all over it."

Fortunately, my second thought in each instance was, "Shut up! He's fine." Also fortunately, that second thought came very quickly, and I was able to throw the first thought out just as quickly. (Well, not the first thought on the slide. I wouldn't want him to have bird-poop stains on his pants. That's just gross.)

Those first thoughts scared me, though, no matter how fast I disregarded them. For the first time, I thought as a worried father would. Or at least, what I imagine a worried father would. I wouldn't know for sure outside of depictions on TV, because my father was all for me playing on the playground. (He BUILT the playground!) Because of that worry, I thought in those above moments, "If I had to act like a worried father in a snap, I could." Of course, I don't have that chance right now (no "brown chicken brown cow"), but if I had to, I could. I wouldn't want to (because I'd take out the "worried" part), but I could.

Eventually the neighbor sawed off the lock (after partly wearing down the second fiberglass bit) and left, bringing Joel back home with him. I said, "'Bye, Joel!" knowing that I had taken another step away from my younger days. That step is part of a long journey to full adulthood, and that journey is a lot of fun (and not just some of the time), but every now and then I wish, and maybe you wish, too, that a backyard playground seemed like Mt. Everest. (Or that the mulch around it was actually hot molten lava. I've entertained that thought recently on the paint lines of a parking lot.)