Experienced and written before the advent of social distancing.
I should have said: you're doing this right.
I should have said: you should be proud.
I should have said: thank you.
There aren't many children over the age of five who are willing to entertain the company of a two-year-old, much less to play with him, and much, much less to do so with a two-year-old who can be perceived as quiet and reserved at first. To put in the work to engage with him. To ask him questions and invite him into their fort.
This kid did.
I had carted Miles to an indoor playground for an afternoon of energy expulsion, following a skipped nap and shortened tempers for us both. (I wrote a bit more about that here.) I tried my best to sit back while he ventured toward groups of other children. It's been a challenge: letting him explore without me hovering, though I hope he knows I'm always ready to have his back. Forever. It's an exercise in self restraint to cede control to him.
Kids were building with Imagination Playground blocks, building and rebuilding an amazing edifice and then choosing whom to allow in, and from whom the construction must be defended. The creativity and imagination at work was beautiful. Miles and I perched ourselves nearby and watched. He crept ever closer to the action, and I leaned in and said to the kids gathered, "This is Miles," then beat a hasty retreat (while remaining in earshot – he's two and a half, after all).
Their ringleader was a boy of about 12 (assuming on both counts). "Hi Miles," he said, and then held out a hand to help my son crawl into the fort.
Without hesitation, without thought, my child was included.
From what I gathered, their building was a castle, under enthusiastic fictional attack from the 12-year-old's sister. Other children, new to the play, suggested excluding others. "No," the older boy corrected them time and again, "everyone can come in."
This pre-teen paid attention to my son, making sure Miles wasn't being trampled by larger peers. He and my quiet, thoughtful son passed bean bags back and forth between each other, the older child encouraging mine in play. When he was ready, Miles climbed back out of the castle and toward my lap, having had his fill of the at-times raucous play with the group of children who were, as a whole, older than him. Instead we pursued other activities, like running in circles together and sharing a smoothie.
I saw the older kid's parents – the grown-ups I assume were his parents – as we were layering to leave. I should tell them, I thought to myself. I should tell them what a good person they're raising. I should tell them he is a good boy, who showed such tenderness and openness to my son. I should tell them I hope Miles grows up to be the same kind of person.
I didn't say anything; though the trip to the park had been healing, it had been a tough day (see aforementioned skipped nap), and we were ready to go home. But it's stuck with me, obviously. Their child's kindness struck me dumb. It was the outcome I always hope for as a mother, when my child toddles toward a social group, attempts connection and play.
I'm so glad there are young people like this kid out there. Goodness and kindness are growing, and I'm grateful for it.
