Kamikaze

Yesterday morning dawned bright and sunny. I loaded my boys into their red Radio Flyer wagon and we embarked on the epic journey to the park. (Maybe less than epic ... it is only one block away).

As we crossed the street and the playground came into view, my toddler loudly exclaimed, "Side! Side!" (Translation: "Slide! Slide!") He is a man who knows what he likes.

We pulled up to the park bench. I released the boys from their seat belts. My preschooler dumped out his bag of shovels and began industriously digging in the gravel. He tends to be a fairly cautious boy, and enjoys playing in the sand more than climbing on the jungle gym. I was momentarily distracted watching my young man dig dirt.

I looked up. In the span of approximately three seconds, my 18-month-old had already monkeyed his way to the top level of the playground. He was preparing to hurl himself head-first down the twisty, yellow slide.

I ran as fast as my bulky body would carry me shouting, "No, no, no! Wait!". But it was too late. I stood helplessly as "Mr. Fearless" leaped from the platform. His little body careened down the slide at a crazy angle. I thought I heard a thump as he slid to the bottom.

I gasped.

He giggled.

"Side!" he exclaimed.

I may have to buy that boy a leash.