"Yes, Mommy," said Clara, looking at me in puzzlement.
"We're mountain-climbers, remember? We have to get to the top of the mountain!"
Clara, not knowing what a mountain climber was, but understanding the importance of pretending things, mimicked my giant, ponderous steps and wheezed and gasped with pretend effort. Yes, we were mountain climbers, which were very, very tired people who had trouble breathing and staggered around a lot.
At the top, I yelled, "We made it! Let's run down the other side!"
I started running, but Clara yelled, "No Mommy, no! Hold hands!" It wasn't out of fear. Rather, running places is always more fun if you're holding hands. So I grabbed her hand and we ran down together. She doesn't have the hang of downhill running yet. Her legs go faster than the rest of her, which makes her look like a tiny, giggling puppet.
We were compelled to climb the "mountain" three more times to establish that we had, indeed, conquered it.
The swings were next. Ah, the swings. Clara likes to try out each one. I tell myself she's testing the nuances between height, comfiness and durability of rubber seating, and the different perspective each offers on the rest of the park (though they're only about two feet apart). And when she asks to switch swings after a mere thirty seconds on each one, I tell myself it's because her taste in swings is so refined, she must try each multiple times to fully gauge their differences and find one that suits her sensitive palate.
I finally took her off the swings and she ran to the slides.
"Hey, how about a smile for Grammy and Popi and Gramma and Grandpa?" I asked.
"Hey, that's not a smile! Smile like you usually do! Show some teeth!" I encouraged her.
"Wow. That's not how you usually smile, but I like it. I do. I appreciate all the effort."
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