[playstructure lessons]

Last night I had the opportunity to play with my favorites, 7 and 8.

I started babysitting again after a long absence from kid-time, and it's been oh so soul good. I've taken the chance not only to read stories and make mac and cheese for dinner, but to remember what being young and what growing feels like. We gain perspective with age, but the heart keeps growing even when the height stops. And growing is hard, whether you're 8 or 3x8.

Because of Oregon's rainy start to July (and June, and May, and, yeah, I want to move), we ended up at an indoor play area of Burger King. I liked that I didn't even know how to order fast food anymore. The workers were laughing at me as I tried to figure out from these wiggly kids what they liked and what to order. ("Hey, get back here! Stop licking the soda off the counter! What do you want? Chicken fries? Do you have a kids meal with chicken fries? What are chicken fries?")

After I discovered that chicken fries are just nuggets in a different shape and I had finished off all their regular fries, 7 and 8 were off on their play structure adventures. I sat on the sidelines and watched swarms of kids running, being told not to run, squeal down the slide, and grabbing a replacement crown every time they ran past the counter, and awkward single parent flirting. It was kind of fascinating and distracting from my book.

I love kids that can imagine. I played imaginative games til I was probably 12 at least, and I know books and limited tv/computer contributed greatly to my ability to create. 7 and 8 made me their queen (if that doesn't steal your heart, I don't know what would) and ran around fighting rats and bad guys and killer roller coasters with jet packs, 'for flyability.'

They play well together, until exhaustion sets in. At the end of the night, with battles won, the chased tagged, and the hidden found, 8 sat on the bench next to me. 'I wish I had a computer,' he said.

I nodded. I check out when I'm tired, too.

It was time to go.

In some sort of manly ritual, Rock-Paper-Scissors is the deciding factor of every every contest. They closed out the night with a final game. 'Okay, this decides who won everything,' 8 declared, and lost two out of three. 7 wasn't even gloating when 8 shoved him to the ground, 'I hate losing to him! I hate it!' he said to me, more passionate than angry. Over-dramatic 7 clung to my legs.

8 looked at me and continued honestly, 'If he cheats, I don't mind losing. If he wins fair and square, I hate it. I don't mind losing to anyone but him! I hate losing fair and square!'

7 just sobbed into my knee, 'He always does that! He hates me. He doesn't love me.' Winning wasn't even as important as having his brother's love. Winning only matters for a moment, but love is everything. That kind of stopped my heart.

It's 8 who I understand, though. To lose because of cheating and feel slighted is still a win for us; it's almost easier to pass off injustice and move on. But to do your best, even at a game of little strategy, and come up short is so unbelievably hard. We want to believe our best wins out. This is America. We've got everything. We worked for it. Success is earned. You can accomplish anything through working hard.

It takes a special kind of courage to lose, fair and square, and press in to that unbelievable disappointment rather than acting it out on others. I'm about as far along in that process of maturity as 8 is. I might not shove, but I feel that hatred well up in me and take it out in other ways.

I'm grateful for the genuine interactions these kids showed me, no matter how broken and childish they were.

I want to be brave and lose well, not pretending like it doesn't hurt, but leaning in, getting through, feeling every bit of it. Even when it hurts more than anything.