Jump!

So, yeah, we've been fighting a few minor border skirmishes of late - the challenging final steps of potty training; an increasingly bold willfulness that manifested itself the other evening in a sobbing "I get to do whatever I want!" - but in general, things are well in the Republic of Cleo. And sometimes: well, sometimes they're simply wonderful.

Take this afternoon. Cleo and I were enjoying the swings (including the new 800-pound test tree swing!) at largely placid Linkwood playground, when a chatty 8-year-old walked up, and offered to show us some photos on her IPod. Um, okay, I offered, wondering simultaneously where her parents might be, and just how they had decided to bestow a relatively glamorous piece of technology on such a tiny girl. (The answer to both questions was soon made clear, all at once: the dad sat on a bench, totally immersed in his IPhone and uninterested in our conversation). Anyway, a small sign of assent was all she needed, and she quickly began to share images: a white tiger; a red alien. Neat! I said offhandedly, hoping to make her feel proud even as I also felt self-conscious about being a middle-aged guy talking to a little girl, on a playground. 'I have songs, too,' she responded. And then she went in for the kill. 'Do you know Van Halen?'

Well, yes. Yes, I do. And so I waited happily while she cued up 'Jump,' and the three of us listened, for a few moments, to a tinny version of the band's epic 1984 hit. At which point Cleo, still swinging all this time, decided to join in, singing 'Pop! Goes the Weasel" again and again, over David Lee Roth's vocals.

I pushed; the girl held her device; Cleo's cape trailed behind her as we swung through space. Van Halen played, the weasel went pop, and 100 yards away the rush hour traffic created a river-like background noise, oblivious to our modest concert.