We’re at the park on a perfect May day. The sun and clouds take equal turns in the sky. The breeze is quiet and peaceful. The temperature rests in a perfect Goldilocks balance. And the soft creaking of the swings in front of me doesn’t grate, the way some are apt to do. Their gentle rhythm and volume simply remind me to stay present.
But ‘present’ is fleeting. In the distance to the right, there’s a group of 12-year-old girls laughing and playing on the tennis court. They are young and spirited, but old enough that, even from a distance, I can see they prefer this time with friends, away from their parents. My own 9-year-old daughter is in front of me on a swing, giggling with her brother next to her. Her dad is pushing the swing, and I am in front of her, teasing as I tap her feet. She is happy here in our bubble, but my heart knows this moment is not forever. I time travel to the not-so-distant future when she’s ‘over there,’ choosing to spend these blissful moments with friends instead.
To my left at the swing set is a set of new parents, placing their young one in the bucket swing for the first time. They all delight in this occasion and remain tightly close to one another. I don’t remember all the milestones from my children’s lives, but I do remember this one. I know this moment. The excitement and quiet fears of putting our babies in the playground swing for the first time, watching their every movement or reaction so we can react accordingly. My 4-year-old is only two swings away, pumping his own legs, balancing his body effortlessly on the belt swing, giddy at the prospect of swinging as high in the air as his sister. He is no longer the baby being pushed in the cradle swing, dangling towards the front, relying on us keep him going or help him stop.
Our family, who tends to shy away from crowds and people, is not accustomed to being around others at the playground lately. This time travel to the past and the future overwhelms my heart and tears begin to roll down my cheeks as I smile. The memories of babyhood and the glimpse of the future are almost too much to bear. The creaking of the swings in front of me somehow seems to grow louder. The rhythm of the back-and-forth seems to speed up, and with it, the passage of time. I feel the forward momentum of my children’s lives. And my own. Time seems to rush by with each *creak*, *creak* of the swings. The tears become sad and almost out of my control.
But then. Then. Somehow my heart settles. The swings’ dizzying time-travel tune seems to magically slow to its previous rhythm and volume. Time is passing, yes. I hear it, I see it, I feel it. But this here? This moment. This day. These ages…. This is perfect.
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