Friday I took my kids to the park. It was 3 in the afternoon. The baby had woken from her nap. Quiet time was over. We were at loose ends. So I strapped the girls into the bike trailer, B hopped on his scooter, and off we went.
The park nearest us is a gem. Before J and I had kids we went occasionally, but it’s really a much better destination for families. Playgrounds, lots of space to run around, animals, swings. And trees. And a river. And rocks.
So after a little time on the swings and playing with the baby on the slide, the big kids wanted to go over to the river with their snack. We headed over to the rock wall that looks down onto the narrow river, which runs through the park quietly and calmly for the most part. The kids began throwing in rocks but were disappointed at the rock selection in the grass. So we scoped out a better spot. We were at a different area of the park than on our last rock-throwing day, sometime last year. The kids are big enough now that we go to the biggest playground area. But on Friday we found ourselves straying from the familiar and discovering a new path in the woods offering the treasure of a quiet hideaway. We climbed down the rocky banks, me holding the baby. And the older kids threw rocks into the clear water handfuls at a time, making a kind of soft and deliberate percussive music. They helped each other find the best rocks and spent at least an hour decorating the river bottom with stones and acorns and handfuls of sand. They were thrilled. And I was enjoying them.
It was a fun hour of togetherness. A strangely secluded time of peace and calm just far enough away from the chaos of ziplines and climbing structures that for a while we all felt we were far away from our familiar destination.
And 5-year-old B said it best: “Mom. I like the park even better now that we’re finding out its mysteries.”
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