Being a kid

Family Fun night was, well, fun(ish). The kids had a blast. Especially since mommy had to work for most of it, and daddy wasn’t able to get there until later in the evening. So C and A got to romp around the room with a gaggle of similarly freed children. C was amazing, checking in before he headed off to a different area, and alerting me to any misdoings on the part of his sister. Which I generally discourage, but last night I applauded his tattletale tendencies when he announced that A was trying to feed the guinea pig or blow bubbles the fish tank.

I have to say, while watching them run around reveling in their perceived lack of supervision, it brought back memories of similar activities when I was a kid. Our town was small, and everyone knew me and my sister. A few times a year there were town wide events, like the Fireman’s Barbecue, where the adults lounged on blankets and the children ran wild through the town green (and next door cemetery when we were slightly older). My sister and I ran with the same crowd of kids every time, consisting mainly of the boys from our childhood playgroup and my sister’s best friend.

There were a few older boys in the group, who seemed to lead the “daring” activities like hide and seek in the cemetery or the sneaking of extra deserts. At the time, we were convinced we were eluding parental supervision, and applauded ourselves on being oh so sneaky. We thought our parents were just. so. clueless. But as I watched from the soda table as C’s chocolate covered hand reached oh so sneakily over to the plate of brownies for the third time, and held my breath as A took yet another flying leap off of the stage, I realized that they were just letting us be kids.

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