Today, we were walking past the playground. A handful of moms, kids, strollers and fruit snacks were splayed across the grass. A toddler boy was jabbering to a lady in a lawn chair, who chatted back to him in that polite, higher-pitched tone you rarely use with your own children; I smiled politely and strolled past, signaling that I wasn't here to interrupt the play date.
The widening roar of approaching jets began swell. Mothers instinctively picked up their infants, pressing one tiny ear against Momma's chest, covering the other baby ear with a hand, while casually picking up fallen Cheerios, occasionally popping one into their own mouths with the free hand. A few ladies yelled over the thunder, but I couldn't hear what they said.
As the rumble faded and I was 20 feet past the group, the non-mother of the toddler boy leaned over her chair's arm rest and asked him, "Did you hear that? What was that sound?"
I glanced over my shoulder, watching for the inevitable excited-boy answer. He was so cute, clutching his yellow dump truck, with one wet pant leg stuck above one grassy kneecap. I bet he loves the jets. Maybe his daddy or mommy flies one of them.
All wide-eyed and eager, he shrilled: "FWEEDOM!!!"
... and I remembered why I was ok with this lifestyle.
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