Journey, Destination, and "Scripts."

A couple Saturdays back, K and I headed up to the Farmer's Market to load up on veggies (and yes, if  picturing two white DINKS wandering the streets of Park Slope, coffees in hand, has you groaning under the weight of that much privilege in one place...well...I groan too).  And we pass a little boy.  Three, maybe four years old?  He's got one of those nifty/obnoxious Razor Scooter things that every man, woman and child in our neighborhood seems to own, he's got a helmet on -- this kid is built for speed.  Except he isn't speeding.  Kiddo is hunkered down at the corner of the sidewalk, examining the lone dandelion within a ten-foot radius that has managed to fight its way up through the concrete.  And he is fascinated.  Then he looks up, walks about another foot, sees a crack in the sidewalk, and is fascinated all over again.  Like you start to wonder if those ten feet of concrete are like speaking to him in some language that we grown-ups are too deaf to hear.

Twenty or thirty feet ahead of him, a woman.  Mom.  Lulu Lemon Yoga-geared from head to toe, svelte, clutching a coffee.  Urging him, the way you would urge your dog, to heel.  Because "doesn't he want to go to the play ground and have fun?" Because "we don't have long to play at the playground."

Lady.

Your son is having plenty of fun.
Your son is having so much fun.
You know what would be even more fun?  If you came over and checked out the cool canyon he found in the sidewalk.
You know all that "journey is the destination" stuff you yoga teacher is always saying while you're in Savasana?  Your kid has already figured it out.
But you're training him to be a particular kind of New Yorker (start 'em young).
The kind who rushes to get where he's going so that he can have the kind of fun you can recognize.
I'm not a parent yet.  And I know that the "kid-who-moves-slower-than-molasses" can be maddening and ruin your morning...on a weekday morning, when you gotta get him to day care, when you're trying to get out of the house.
But on a Saturday morning?  When all you got on the agenda is "play with kid in park?"
You are in Savasana, friend.  Be in Savasana.

What's the lesson here?  I'm still figuring that out.

Is it: "I'm the mom, my play is the kid?"
Is it "I'm the mom and the kid, and the dramaturgy is the DINK watching me from the other side of the sidewalk?"
Is it "I'm the mom, my career is the kid?"

The lesson is somewhere in there.