“Did you cry?” I asked Charlotte from the driver’s seat on the way to daycare.
Over the weekend, my girlfriends and I took our lot of kids to Centre Island for a fun playdate. Not only is the island a scenic landscape for picnics, BBQs, and family reunions, but it also boasts a little amusement park full of tame rides perfect for preschoolers. It turned out to be a fantastic day with just enough sun to scorch the back of my legs and melt off my face (figuratively, obviously). But lucky for me, the slivers of shade every few hundred feet provided much solace in the form of a gentle breeze.
Charlotte had never been on any amusement rides before so I was curious (but also nervous) to see how she would react. I was preparing myself for the worst as suppressed memories of last year’s zoo fiasco flashed before my eyes.
She was well into the swing of things by the second ride and adamant about going on every ride after that until we got to the mighty one of all (for her size). The big kahuna (but even then, it was maybe only 7 feet off the ground at its highest point). We decided as a group that she’d ride it with my friend so that I could stay behind to watch our
luggage wagon (of endless childrearing supplies) and keep my vertigo at bay. Everything was great until the locomotive hit its peak and the downward drop (again, a slight 20-degree angle) made her regret life whatever a 4-year-old thinks of regretting at that age.
“No, I didn’t cry, but I was scared.” She replied from the backseat.
“Oh, but you were so brave!” I said, trying to get her to see the positive.
“No, mama! I wasn’t brave, I was scared.”
“Charlotte, what you did was brave. Brave means you are scared of something but you do it anyway.”
One of the best things about living with a
lunatic 4-year-old is how brilliant they can actually be at times. The things she teaches me or reminds me of every single day is extraordinary.
When was the last time you did something brave? What was that like?
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