Today I got out of the house and took the babies on a walk to the park. It was cold but the sky was blue. The sun was that blinding winter sun where you want it on your face for the warmth, but you have to close your eyes because of the glare.
When I got to the park it was nearly deserted, and as I turned the corner I saw that the swings were empty, too. I love swings. Usually they’re occupied by teenagers or, of course, kids. Last time I was in the park some guy was using the swing enclosure as a dog run for his two rambunctious hounds. I pushed the huge double stroller next to the swing set, then climbed on the outermost swing.
Swinging is so amazingly liberating. I’ve been stressed about our move to Pittsburgh; I needed something. I had a strange feeling watching the carriage get closer, then further, watching the red laces on my black boots sweep past the ground, up past the Manhattan skyline to the bare tree branches and back. It was fun, and I felt kind of like a kid. But I saw myself, too, a mother on the swings mid day, with the pram parked beside her. I was old and young at the same time.