Curbs. ? or !

One afternoon last July, Kevin and April and Jeremy were here, trying to get some work done, and they suggested that they might be more

It seems to me that, from a toddler’s eye view, this would be a scary, deep, dark cavern, to be avoided at all costs. Apparently, toddlers are much more adventurous than I am. And they fit much better, too.

productive if Toddler Peter weren’t in the house, wanting to sit in their laps, around the table. So he and I went to WalMart. We walked into the store and toward the shopping carts, where Peter was thrilled to spy this tunnel-ish sort of walkway, thoughtfully provided by the WalMart people for the entertainment of little folks. He walked a little way in, could not be convinced to walk back towards me, so I had to wriggle in, grab him, and wriggle back out, where I popped him into a cart and strapped him in…securely, so we could go and get our shopping done.

Monday before last, I was in Fort Worth, taking care of Peter while Kevin was at work and April was on a car-collecting trip with her brother. Kevin installed the car seat into my car’s back seat, and mid-morning, Peter and I were off to run errands. At every stop, as we started across parking lots, (there is a rule that Mimi and Peter must hold hands in parking lots), Peter began to pull and pull and pull my hand, headed with intensive focus towards—curbs.  What IS it about curbs!?!

At the Container Store, the curbs are beside the sidewalk. But, who would walk on a sidewalk when there’s a curb? Not a kid.

At the Tom Thumb grocery store, there were curbs around the slots designated for the return of emptied grocery carts. We walked around those. (Well, not exactly “we.” “He” walked on the curbs; I held his hand and walked safely next to those curbs.) We followed them until they turned and we were walking away from the store’s doors. “We have to go this way,” I said, tugging the reluctant shopper towards the store.

In the Central Market parking lot, Peter dragged me over to the curbs that surround the trees at the ends of all the lanes.

And suddenly, I really did, really could, honestly and truly, remember when, as a child, I would choose to balance along the curbs, instead of walking on the sidewalks and asphalt. And I wasn’t alone. All of us, when we would go up and down the street, walked on the curbs. When we crossed from one side of the street to the other, we walked up the curved curb of the driveway to the sidewalk. Sometimes, we would walk, up/down, up/down, limping-like, with one foot on the curb and the other foot in the gutter. Especially if there were puddles. But you had to be careful then, because you might could explain, on a rainy day, why both shoes were damp. But if one shoe was totally dry and the other one completely soaked, there might be questions. Questions that could not be easily answered, especially if one’s mother were staring into one’s eyes, even if those eyes were closed. Tight.

At the playground close to Peter’s house, there is a wide curb of sorts, around the center, mulched area, where the play equipment is. It’s low on one side, but as it circles around, it becomes a retaining wall, and rises to a couple of feet or so off the ground. For Peter, and most of the other kids, it’s as much a part of the playground equipment as the stairs and ramps and slides and swings.

Sometimes, in my senior adulthood, I forget about looking for challenges. (Of course, in my senior adulthood, rousting myself out of bed every morning is something of a challenge.) Little kids are always looking for the new, the different, the more exciting, the more interesting thing to do. Maybe I should be spending a little more time with Peter, to be reminded to look for the challenges and meet them head-on, even when they’re a little darker and deeper and narrower than I’m accustomed to.