Second Star to the Right

We love the park.  The girls would be happy if everyday I simply packed them in the stroller and took them to the playground.  Gloom or shine. All. Day. Every. Day.  And they would slide and chase and climb.  But most of all they would swing.  They are expert swingers, those two.  Sugar Blue is never ready to get out.  You can see her savoring the flavor of the air on her cheeks, ingesting it like honey and letting it amplify all that is sweet.  She lounges and smiles.  Takes advantage of the opportunity to see the world upside down.  Giggles and shines.  And always wishes for more.   
And Curly.  Curly, Curly, Curly Sue.  She has mastered the art of swinging.  She extracts every ounce of fun there is to be had in two chains and a plastic seat.  She's an expert at the twist and spin, underdogs and superman style.  But her specialty is the classic set up, back straight, face lit.  Pumping her legs or coasting, floating.  She flies, lets the breeze swirl her curls like a mane around her face.  The motion seems to lift her to a secret place, a Never Never Land tailored uniquely to her.  She packs the rhythm in her pockets like pixie dust, saves it for later.  I think swinging is her happy thought.
I introduced her to the spider strategy not long ago.  I slid between the chain links and lifted her on my lap.  Then four legs pumped, two shorter, two longer.  A gleeful squeal escaped Louise as we swung like a pendulum, gently gaining altitude with each bend in our joints.  Wind kissed my cheekbones, whispered in my ear and I looked at my first little girl, already far past the second star to the right and circling the mermaid lagoon.  I was transported, Wendy led by Peter Pan's perfect charm.  The moment passed, warm and slow as amber syrup from a pitcher.  Lately, that's my happy thought.

It's Mahk!

Coming out of the grocery store our purple rocket shopping cart was hijacked by a kindly helper who introduced himself as "Mahk!" in heavy Bostonian English. Smiling, he informed me that he would be taking care of us today. I'm usually one to avoid this type of help, but not even I could resist the childlike joy in this man's face. Pushing my groceries was his Christmas morning. I yielded girls and groceries into the supervised care of this down-syndrome hero, feeling strangely special to receive his attention. Then he zoomed the girls to our car, even made sound effects. He loaded all the groceries into the trunk, took note of all our names, and generally made a gentleman of himself. I put Curly in the car to get herself started on the seatbelt process while I grabbed baby Louise. I heard Suzie slam the door behind her and Mark rushed over, to play. I heard quacking and giggles. I felt secure in taking my time getting Sweetie Blue out of the rocket and into her seat. A soft hand reached over the shotgun headrest, quack-quack-quacking around. Looking for my curly little love. It's MAHK!!! He appeared with black eyes shining. He was delighted. She was delighted. We were delighted. He stuck around for one more round of "Who is this Duck?". Then off he went to save the day of some other customer who had no idea they were in need.

Freestyle

A few weeks ago I took the girls to an arts festival while Daddy studied. In a word it was awesome. "Punkins" of every color, free face painting, all kinds of fine pictures for sale, and a kids tent settled next to the hugest subwoofers I've ever seen, or heard. You could paint a pumpkin for two bucks; so I bought two and let Curly style both while Bobalouise lovingly identified every other gourd in the joint...when she wasn't busy hooting with the band on her kazoo. Before the hour had passed Suzie had produced pumpkins so very Pollock meets Rothko and Bugs had been there to help all volunteers understand that pumpkins are amazing in that they are round, orange, and quite easily fallen off of. I scribbled initials in our signature pink and started herding them toward the door. We made a small detour to get the stinker's face painted; then I exited to the sunshine with one Sweetface a bouquet of flowers, and the other greatly troubled by the mess on her sister's cheeks.
The pumpkins were still wet and we had energy to burn so I suggested they dance in the grassy sunshine while our prizes dried. This was wildly successful! The band did cover after cover of everything from Cotton Eye Joe to Michael Jackson through the years. And the girls were busting a move. Little Lou bounced in wide circles across the lawn. Slightly oblivious, and totally delighted. Sweet Sue, she was a blur. Light glinting off golden curls, ice blue polka dot skirt casting shadows on the dying grass. Twirling, leaping, posing for dramatic effect. Song after song after song. I couldn't keep my eyes off her, she was so fun to watch.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found an old woman, purple sweatsuit hanging on her fragile frame, the fuzzy hair of a much loved teddy bear, eyes deep with purpose. She asked me if Curly had dance classes, encouraged me to get her some, discussed the lifelong benefits of music in one's life. Curly could tell she'd been noticed and gave her performance everything she had. I enjoyed it. This woman was sweet, sincere, kind, passionate. And soon I could tell she was tired. Her daughter came to guide her back to her folding chair but not before our patron made me promise to foster the arts in my home. I think she may have had some difficulty with short term memory, we replayed the conversation three times more. But she was right about everything. And we had fun.

2:19:10

Six months ago I set a goal. One that I thought was pretty big. And one that was pretty much just for me. I wanted to run a half marathon: 13 miles. I picked one that friends had run; a hilly but beautiful course in New Hampshire, very comfortable for family spectators, and with the promise of fresh orchard produce at the end. Six months went by. Flew by. We kept up with life. Hubby studied for the boards, I trained as much as possible. Then Saturday arrived, beautiful. We got up early, ate breakfast, packed snacks and entertainment for two little munchkins, and trekked up there. I picked up my d-tag and I stretched in the port-a-potty line. Kuni got settled with the girls somewhere. Then hundreds of us slipped into line. And I ran, we ran, up and down, past flashes of crimson and gold peeking out from the green under a sky of Easter egg blue. The air was clean and gently warm, it was a day designed for running.

I loved it. All two hours, nineteen minutes, ten seconds of it. I'm amazed at the human body. I love how my muscles remembered how to do this, even though it was more than I'd ever done before. I love the camaraderie of running; I love the support I feel from the other contenders, how we push each other, make each other work, make each other better. I love the circus of a race, it's a buffet for the eye and ear what with the furry man, the horse woman, the power granny, and the lone hilltop bagpipe serenader. I love the metaphor it is for life: so much putting one foot in front of the other, how the hardest days are the most important ones to finish, the great, subtle rewards of consistency. I loved seeing my favorites waving at the finish. And I'll definitely do it again. I'll do it again for the smell of the air in the woods, for the time spent alone with my thoughts in a crowd. I'll do again to give my soul a chance to keep pace with my feet. I'll do it again to stay who I am, and improve it. But more than anything, I'll do it again, 'cause it made me happy. :)