Afterward, we were all hot and tired, and ready to go get some ice cream, but we had promised Reagan, who rode in his stroller for the hike, that he could go back to the playground after our walk. So his father and I dragged our weary selves back to the playground for a few more minutes, wishing all the while we were sitting in air-conditioning.
I'm so glad we went back.
The playground was packed, and getting busier. Families were enjoying picnics, boat rides, fishing -- all the things that families do on a national holiday. Everyone clustered together. Siblings, parents, cousins, friends all wrapped around each other, playing together, listening to music, enjoying life.
As Reagan ran toward the slides, there was a little girl, maybe eight years old, by herself. She climbed up to the top of the slides, slid down, and climbed up again. While sliding down a slide is a solitary activity, something about her struck me. Reagan, being two, jumped in front of her, and I had to pull him back and remind him that she was first. She smiled shyly and said that it was ok.
After a little while, we went over to the swing set. There was a swing designed for small children, complete with an over-the-shoulder harness and extra safety measures. We put Reagan in. and he squealed with delight while his father pushed him higher and higher, faster and faster.
As he was swinging, the little girl came and stood by the swing next to him, which was a bucket-style seat, made for a toddler. She stood right beside us and pretended not to watch out of the corner of her eye, gently pushing the empty swing back and forth.
I found myself watching her, wondering what her story was. She just seemed so ... alone. Not alone as in someone had abandoned her at the park, but alone nonetheless. No one was checking on her. No one was playing with her. No one was making sure she was having a good time.
After Reagan was done, he wanted to swing in the toddler swing. The swing she was standing by. Again, being two and largely unaware of social graces, he asked to be placed in that swing, oblivious that someone else was already using it.
I reminded him that he needed to say "please," first, but she had already moved away, saying quietly, "It's ok. He can have it." So we pushed him in the swing, faster and faster, higher and higher, him giggling with the sheer joy of riding in a swing, and us laughing at the sheer joy of being his parents.
And then, my heart ripped just a bit.
As we were getting ready to leave the park, the sweet girl was still hanging beside us, just watching. My husband addressed her -- I think he smiled and said hello -- and she said, so quietly we could have just as easily missed it:
"Would you please push me on the swing too?"
Anyone who knows my husband knows that, of course, he did. Our sore muscles and fatigue by the sun vanished.
Her name, she said, was Madison. She climbed into the baby swing, really not meant for someone her age, and off they went. He pushed her faster and faster, higher and higher, her corn rows flying in the wind.
I stood to the side and watched, grateful that my sunglasses hid the tears pooling in my eyes. The look on her face was pure, childlike ecstasy. Something in the way she smiled and laughed told me she didn't get these moments often.
I don't know her story. But I had a feeling, watching her, that maybe she didn't have a Daddy. Or at least a Daddy that would push her on a swing. And maybe there weren't a lot of people paying attention to her. And maybe, just maybe, she needed someone, if only for a few moments, to remind her she mattered.
After a little while, she politely said she was finished. Maybe she was, and maybe she just felt like she had taken enough of our time. I don't know. But I know I walked away from the park different than I walked in. I felt a mixture of gratitude that I married a man who draws children to him, and who loves children fiercely and passionately, in a way that only he can. But I also felt sad. Sad that there are so many Madisons in the world. Sad for a little girl who had to ask a stranger to push her on a swing set, because no one else was around to make sure she was enjoying her holiday. And sad because a simple thing like a ride in a swing made for someone smaller than her might have been the best thing that happened to her in a long, long time.
I'm so glad Reagan insisted on going back to the playground.
Madison, wherever you are, you are a precious, precious girl. I hope someone tells you that often.
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