Monday I took my kids to the park. I didn’t really want to.
I didn’t want to because I was sick, the kitchen needed to be cleaned, there were clothes to fold, the dishes were piled up, I had dinner to make, and I was holding some outlandish fantasy that I’d be able to do it all in time to watch Monday Night Football.
…But perfect weather is rare in Oklahoma and school was out for the holiday, so I relented and took both kids to the park. It was a great. Sloan (8-years-old) played on the playground and Penny (18-months-old) stuffed dirt up her nose. Then everyone hurt themselves and cried, demanded to go home, cried again because I agreed to take them home, and restarted the whole process back at the dirt-up-nose phase. Pretty standard park trip. 4 out of 5; would recommend.
The real reason I took them, though, is the looming specter of The Last Time They Ask.
The last time Sloan asks to go to the playground is coming. The last time I’m handed a stuffed animal to hug as part of the going-to-bed ritual is coming. I was in the middle of typing that the last time she hands me a plate of pretend food from her kitchen playset was coming, until I realized it’s probably been 8 months since that last happened and I WAS NOT PREPARED TO DEAL WITH THAT REALIZATION TODAY. Time to mentally file that one away with the last time I heard what her imaginary friend was up to and the day “Daddy” turned into “Dad.”
Kids grow up. They grow out of stuff whether I’m ready to let go or not. Sloan is past the halfway mark towards her ninth birthday already, and the ominous ‘tween’ phase feels like it’s right around the corner. When I was her age ‘Tweens’ weren’t a thing, but now it seems like pre-teen-post-childhood era starts earlier for kids every year. Pretty soon they’ll exit the womb already poking at a smartphone and midway into a K-pop phase.
I guarantee that even this thing comes preinstalled with some trendy social media app I’m too old to understand.
I feel a lot of mixed emotions about going into the tween years. I’ve really enjoyed seeing how every new year created a kid with interests and opinions of her own, and I’m excited about what comes next.
…but, real talk? I like doing kid’s stuff. I like swings and stuffed animals and tea parties and pretending to be a dragon so she can chase me around the yard with a foam rubber sword. The feelings of growing-up FOMO are hitting hard, and I’m already pretty susceptible to that kind of thing. I mean, I had to take “Puff the Magic Dragon” out of the lullaby rotation because I can’t make it to the end dry eyed, a song I’m convinced was written as part of a cold war psych program designed to make opposing soldiers cry so hard they can’t aim straight.
Here’s the song for those who’ve forgotten it and/or want to cry every last drop of moisture out of their body.
How do you balance enjoying a time of their lives that’s painfully impermanent with living a normal life? I don’t love going to Chuck E. Cheese, but my kids do, and the span they’ll love it is short. Every day I don’t take them is one more day crossed off the calendar where a trip to that horrible place is The. Best. Thing.
So should I be going to Chuck E. Cheese more? Way more? Should I go once now and then stop forever so it lives in Sloan’s memory as something perfect instead of the grungy child casino it becomes once you cross a certain age? Because we’ve got maybe 200 more days before her perception of that nightmarish pizza rat goes from a magical new friend to a teenager dressed in a sweaty carpet. Probably less if she tries to read this over my shoulder when I’m not looking, as I suspect may have happened during my spirited criticism of a certain Christmas elf (though maybe I’m not super heartbroken about seeing that holiday ordeal in the rear-view mirror).
This is not a complication of parenting I ever expected.
At least this particular harbinger of growing up gives me an excuse to play skee-ball.
Maybe any approach to enjoying their limited childhood still leaves you feeling guilty. Take this line of thought to its logical conclusion and everything feels like squandering time. Keep the meals and sleep short; there’s memories to be made. Every quiet afternoon must become a visit to the park. Every visit to the park must become a trip to Disneyland. Every trip to Disneyland must become a trip to that ultra-exclusive Super Disneyland where Beyonce takes her kids.
Of course that’s not sustainable. I need rest. I need time away from her. Nobody can afford Disneyland every weekend. I need to write a column about feeling like I shouldn’t be squandering my limited hours of her childhood writing a column.
So yeah: I’m easy to talk into a trip to the park. I don’t know what the right balance is with this. Maybe there isn’t one. I suspect that when my toddler reaches her own tween years I won’t have learned a single thing from this experience and I’ll be feeling the exact same anxiety I am now. Maybe at least I’ll have something funnier to say on the topic.
…Anyway, I guess I’ve low key talked myself into taking the kids to Chuck E. Cheese now. Maybe Disneyland; I’ll play it by ear.
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