Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

Tonight I took my children to the block party in the pocket park. This is news for the following reasons:

1. I took them by myself, without husband or helper, which is generally accepted foolhardiness.

2. We never attend neighborhood parties. This is because taking my kids to gatherings is like taking Curious George to a museum: you essentially wait for the monkey to climb the Tyrannosaurus Rex bones in the dinosaur exhibit, and then accidentally cause them to smash into a heap. Except I don’t bring a monkey, just my progeny.

We struggle to be appropriately sociable for a variety of behavioral factors, but tonight the five-year-old cruised to the party on his bike anyway, and the toddler would not be kept from being in the thick of it, so Jack and I figuratively threw up our hands in defeat and joined in too.

It was nice to be in the almost-cool-enough-for-a-jacket dusk and talk to my neighbors. It sort of makes you feel like an actual human being when you get to participate in basic social niceties.

It was delicious to stand on the cool grass and participate until Jack flew off the handle after some time had passed. We made a hasty exit and then Jack came home and threw my iPad across the kitchen.

Seriously, though.

It lived. So did I.

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