Swing Tyrant Grows Irascible

Sometimes I think back to the early days of Kina on swings, before she could talk and when even the slightest push was a thrill. What a contrast to today’s Kina, with her specifically-selected swings, carefully-calibrated push heights, and custom leaf accessories. She is at an age when I imagine one might expect her to learn how to kick herself to her desired altitude—and she knows it—but demands to be pushed nonetheless. This is true on “bucket swings” and “big-girl swings”, both of which require equal attention from her on every visit to the playground. It is unbelievable how long this child can spend on a swing. Have you tried to ride on a swing for more than two minutes as an adult? It’s nauseating, and just watching a kid do it—for literal hours—makes you wonder what miracles of the inner ear our children are afforded. How have we evolved to this point? What advantage do we gain over other species by being able to fly back and forth for hours on end? I recently developed a repetitive stress injury in my swing-pushing arm, and I’ve had to move to my non-dominant swinging arm in order to meet Her Majesty’s demands. It is on days like this that I feel like The Giving Tree, rubbed to a stump by years of mechanical effort. And yet, guess who took a long, luxurious bath last night, her tummy full of imaginary ice cream, floating gauzily in the tub?

Let’s just say it wasn’t the one-armed experimental taco stand entrepreneur.

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