Gifted Children

As Ruth and I walk up to the swing set, a little girl calls out to me. “Watch me!”. She says with an edge in her voice. Assertive.

She pumps her legs and tips her head back. Jumping towards the sky.

I’m a little startled. I don’t like being barked at even if it’s a child.

I look at her. There’s a fading stick-on tattoo on her arm. Her hair is pulled back into a little bun. She turns away and pumps her little legs even harder.

I place Ru in the swing. I start pushing her. I do my comedy routine where I squeal as she swings into me. She cracks up. Her giggle makes me giggle.

“Your baby is little!” the little girl calls over to me.

“She is. You’re right.” I say back.

“I used to be little like that too. I’m 6 on June 26th. That’s two sixes. But I’m five now.”

“Happy early birthday! I hope you get something special.”

I push Ruth. I look around. Whose baby is this? I think to myself. Is she here alone?

She’s watching me.

“I’m here with my grandma. My mommy’s at home. Sleeping. She’s tired. So I need to let her rest. Mommies get tired you know...Not me. I have a LOT of energy. Too much energy. I have SO much energy.”

“It’s good that you’re in the best place to get all that energy out, then isn’t it? Our bodies need to move sometimes.”

“Does your baby have lots of energy?” She asks.

“She sure does. I can barely keep up and she isn’t even running fast like you, yet.”

She disengages and holds her arms out trying to catch the air. Her legs dangle and she kicks them about.

The three of us are silent.

“I wish I was with my mommy.” The sentence hangs in the air. We look at each other. I try not to blink. I want her to see me looking at her. She may be five going on six but her pain is old. I can feel it sticking to my sides.

I look away first.

“Where do you live?”

“I live in a small house with my husband. You see him over there on the soccer field with our doggie? His name is Brisket. The doggie.”

“I live in a house. Not now. Mommy lives in a house. 301. That’s the apartment I live in with Grandma now. Hey, watch this!” She kick her legs up above her head.

“You’re swinging so high! You’re doing a great job.”

“I did this, you know. I taught myself. I thought about it in my head. And I figured it out and now I’m doing it. I did it. Look how high I’m going.”

I watch her. “Wow!” I say. She is flying.

I remember I would swing and try to catch the sky when I was little, too. I wanted to go so high I would flip over the bar and wind the chains of the swing around it like thread around a spool. I'd be trapped like a dead bug in a spider’s web.

“Does your baby cry?”

“Oh yes. She cries. Less than she used to. But she cries. It’s how she tells me what she needs. She doesn’t have all those words like you do, yet.”

“I can’t wait ‘till I’m big. Then I won’t cry.”

“Oh .You know what? I cry. It’s okay to cry. I think it’s good to cry when you need to. Adults cry all the time.”

“Not bosses.”

“Well, I know some bosses. Some of my friends are bosses, and you know what, they cry.”

She looks me up and down. Skeptical, another clueless adult. She continues swinging.

I put my focus back on Ruth. She squeals and swings her hands above her head ‘Mama!”.

“Yes baby. I see you!” I coo, reflexively.

‘Watch me!” she hollers. I watch. This wasn’t the post-daycare afternoon I was expecting.

“Are you proud of your baby?” This little apparition of a girl asks me. She almost doesn’t seem real. But she is. Such big questions from someone staring down six.

“I am so proud of her. Every day.” I say, matter of fact.

She pumps her legs and swings even higher.

I look at the sky. It’s a perfect day. These in-between months are so delicious when the weather gets it right.

“Are you proud of me?” she asks plainly.

I wish I was more comfortable. But this little girl has stirred the 6 year old girl inside me. Parts of me are screaming. I am often feeling too many things all at once that I miss the moment. All her longing and sensitivity kicking up dust inside my chest that suddenly feels on fire. My breath catches in my throat. I don’t want her to question my answer. I want to tell her something important. Like, no one else’s opinion matters. Or, it’s important to be proud of ourselves first. Or…something she could hold onto or remember. But instead I just say:

“I am so proud of you. Look at you. You’re doing so great. Anyone would be!”

She says nothing. I turn back to look at Ruth. She’s signing “all done”. She boisterously woofs and points at Brisket who is begging for pats from all the dog owners on the soccer field. “You want to see Dada?”, “Yah!” She screams.

I take her out of the swing. She reaches for my hand and tries to pull her hat off.

“Okay, I think we’re off to get our doggie.” I scan the park. I don’t see a grown up that fits a grandma description. “Your grandma is close by?”

“Mmhmm. Bye!” She squeaks.

“Say ‘bye, bye’ Ruth.” Ruth gives her big Ruth wave and runs off across the soccer field towards Thomas. “Hope to see you again sometime soon.”

We meet up with Thomas and Brisket. Ruth chases the dogs.

I keep checking in on her. She must have been there for at least half an hour jumping towards the sky. I turn back and she’s gone. I scan the park. She’s skipping down the bike path with an older woman. Her grandmother. The little girl is tall. As she walks her arms swing, exaggerated. As if she has a big backpack on her. Cartoon-like. I watch her disappear down the path until I can’t see her anymore.

Thomas and Ruth rush away to the play structure. I hold myself for a moment and take a breath.

I stand in the field surrounded by grownups and dogs. I’ve never felt less like an adult.