Last night was a b-e-a-u-tiful night (ok, a little cooler than I would have liked, but sunny and clear) so the kids and I walked down to the neighborhood playground.
Annie wanted to swing. Robbie wanted me to chase him. He said I was the fox and he was the gingerbread baby (Jan Brett books, anyone?). So I did. We ran all over the playground and laughed. He would climb up the slide into the tunnel and I would reach in to try to pinch him.
When Charlie joined us (he'd stayed behind to finish up his homework), Charlie became the fox and I got on the swings. If there are two kid things I love, it's swinging and coloring with crayons -- but that's another blog post.
Anyway, at some point in all that running around and swinging, I started remembering days before on the playground, when it was a little Charlie who was hiding in the tunnels, waiting for me to tweak his little side. I remembered when Annie was 2-1/2 and Charlie was just days old and we were on the playground, letting her run off some of that toddler energy. When the playground equipment seemed too big for their little selves, so much so that I would talk with other parents about how I wished they could put in some toddler-sized climbers.
Then I looked around and thought, "how did these kids get so big, so fast?"
We took the long way home, enjoying the extra sun delivered by daylight savings time. About 2 blocks from home, as Charlie and I were talking, he slipped his hand in mine and we walked that way the rest of the way home. Guess he's not so big -- not too big for holding hands with his mom, anwway -- after all.