I went to a friend’s backyard for a little happy hour today. The five of us had our dogs there. I have the oldest; Sasha is 11, and the others range in age from just shy of a year to about five years old.
As we watched them play, we laughed at Cooper’s insistence on humping Roxy, Drexel’s desperate need for affirmation that he is loved above all others, Ginger’s severe ADD, and Sasha’s matronly tsk tsk when the play becomes too rough.
I met these women and their families, except for one I’ve known since before kids, when we joined the neighborhood play group about 15 years ago. A year or so later, we all sent our kids to the same neighborhood pre-school and have watched them grow up together.
Today’s backyard scene was not too different from what it has always been, though instead of chasing after our charges to prevent them from toppling off tables and chairs, eating mud, and asking them for the 10th time if they have to go to the bathroom, we kicked back and occasionally intervened when play became too rough or when one jumped up on a couch.
The kids used to have much less say in how they socialized; we’d scoop them up with the food and drink on our way to someone’s house, having no need to seek their opinions on how we were going to spend our afternoons and evenings. They were always just thrilled to have a different space to play in with other small people.
Now, here we are, and the kids have lives and plans of their own. So, I turn to Sasha and ask, “You want to go see Cooper?! Want to see Drex?!” Yes; yes, she does. And I didn’t really even have to ask.
My Corner of the Village 