Spanglish Accent: Swinging Sisters

My girls love to swing. As is the case for most children between the ages of 1 and 100. If we are anywhere within a mile of a swing set they will sniff it out and start begging to swing "for just a minute, I promise". If we have time I stop and will spend the next 20 minutes (if I'm lucky - an hour if I am not) pushing the girls to cries of "Higher, Mama,, Higher" and "Faster". If I don't pull them back just so (from behind, holding both sides, until they are over my head, then let go - don't push - there will be no pushing here) I have to stop them still and start all over again. They are very particular about their swinging style. I have finally taught MadHatter how to swing by herself. Stinkerbell tries her darnedest, pumping her little legs in a rhythm only she understands but it does nothing to help propel her closer to the clouds. It doesn't bother her in the least. Why should it? Mama is on call when needed.

They are obsessed. And why shouldn't they be?

I remember well the feeling of freedom, the sense of joy, the illusion of flight that the swings gave me when I was a kid. Sometimes, if I got going high enough, the arc that brought me back down to earth would also bring me a slight drop in my stomach before sending me back up to the sky again. It was scary and exciting at the same time and it was something to strive for every time I hit the swings. I remember thinking that if I just pushed myself hard enough I could touch the clouds with my toes maybe even reach the sun. And no round of play on the set would be complete without closing my eyes, leaning back so my hair brushed the ground as I flew past, and pretending that I was flying. For those few moments I was free and I really could fly.

I love that my girls and I have this shared love of swinging. And we now have a large backyard. Perfect combination for a swing set.

It was delivered on Monday.

This is what has been going on at my house since Monday...