Last week, the weather was beautiful.
I enjoyed it Friday afternoon with my two youngest sons, who had lured me out with promises of amazing scooter tricks in the driveway. After several daring feats of bravery (my two year old is amazing on the thing, I tell you!) involving speedy races and kick flips, the scooters lost their charm and the backyard swingset began to look more enticing. “Push us, mama! Push us!” they both cried, racing each other through the gate and launching themselves onto swings.
“Who can go higher?” I teased. “Me!” “No, me!” they argued, as I pushed first one, then the other. They were cackling, they were laughing so hard. So was I, of course. I grabbed my phone to sneak a quick picture, which of course took fifteen tries because, well, they were swinging in and out of focus. Finally, I caught this one …
And time stood still.
It seems I just took this one yesterday …
And the boys in *that* photo, looking so like the ones on today’s swing, are fifteen years older, and grown and gone.
I put my phone and the proof away, and pushed …
Because right now, I can.
The younger one needs every bit of energy I put into each push, exhilerating in the height and the wind in his face but unable to harness the force for his own use, yet. Already, my four year old swings legs back and forth, back and forth, impatiently urging himself on with the impetus of my first launch. But the baby’s time, too, will come. He will join the ones who have gone before, swinging higher, further than I can propel him, swinging so fast and high I can do naught but get out of his way.
But today, I can push.