Wednesday, September 07, 2005

a small part of what's wrong with me

Yesterday at Disneyland, there was a sweet faced little girl waiting in line for Space Mountain ahead of us. She was maybe about 4 years old and had adorable little wispy ringlets and a matchy-datchy tank top and capri pant outfit on and these teensy-weensy low-top Converse. She was clearly bored (as was I, thus the staring) and she started playing with the chains that they use between the stanchions to direct the line. She was twirling it around like a jump rope for a while, then wiggling it like a snake. Eventually she - like all kids do - sat on the chain and started swinging back and forth.
In my head, she was my sweet daughter, and I would put my hand on her tiny shoulder and say "sweetie, please get down, I don't want you to fall". I had a pet name for her and everything and I must have replayed the scene three or four times before Ryan saw the girl, furrowed his eyebrows and said "who lets their kid swing on the chain like that? She's going to fall and break her head open!" Then, seeing my startled expression asked "what?" But I couldn't possibly explain that I was standing there daydreaming about being the World's Best Mother and gently coaxing my daughter off the chain...

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