and then kate

Really, it should be no surprise to me that Aura is not the bravest kid on the playground. In fact, if derring-do is hereditary, she’s pretty much downright screwed. Her father does not have a very athletic past and I…well, I was kicked out of ballet class at six years old. My foray into elementary school soccer was not much more successful, but my mother paid the season fee so they couldn’t very well boot me out of there. Actually, they might have tried, but my mother keeps very hush-hush about these things, since I tend to get hung up on personal embarrassments like that. As it is, I have to restrain the urge to trip little girls dressed in tutus, including my own. Don’t even get me STARTED on how I feel about the third position.

I swear. She was already sitting down.

Annnyway. I fully understand that it is ridiculous to want to urge Aura to take more risks at the playground, to egg her on until she decides to tackle the big swirly-whirly slide. And I really do acknowledge that the fact that she was talking at eight months and knew the alphabet by 12 months (thanks, refrigerator magnets!) is completely separate from her prowess on the wobbly bridge or the low monkey bars.

I refuse to go near the big swirly-whirly slide. At least while you are watching me.

But then I remember how fervently I believed that being a soccer star would have improved my abysmal junior-high experience and I find myself prompting loudly, “Come on! You CAN climb that (really not very intimidating) ladder by yourself!”  I think of how well Aura does at so many other things and I’m suddenly bribing her with a trip to the bakery for five brownies if she mounts the see-saw without a boost from me. When, really, all she wants to do is go at her own pace, climb through the tunnel, and maybe track down a few pine cones over by the swings.

And you know what? I’m finally realizing that doing what she does is fine. Absolutely fine. I’ve seen her go down the big slide, so I know she can do it.  And I’ve also seen plenty of other kids her size refuse to put one fingertip on the monkey bars. For all I know, she’ll hit four and transform into the biggest little jock this town has ever seen. Or maybe she’ll hit four and just continue to love dancing in the living room and reading her books and building the most elaborate magnet-block towers this side of the Atlantic.

Either way, sometimes a kid just needs to go outside, sit on a duck, and simply be three years old.