There is a certain playground, just down the street from our first house where I used to take my own little boys to play. The sign announces you have arrived at Kehoe Park. Don't believe it. Everyone in the area who has or has had a midget knows it is Rocket Park.
It doesn't take much imagination to figure out where the name came from, or why it has endured. The rocket in that particular park has been entertaining generations since the start of the Cold War. The new coat of paint it receives from time to time does not disguise the fact that the original munchkins who climbed that apparatus would be hard pressed to do so still. I fall into that category, and it had several coats of paint before I first laid eyes on that child trap.
I wish I had a picture of my kids on the rocket to include with this blog. But oh so many years ago when we visited, any camera that might have been attached to a phone would also have been tethered to the wall. Pictures using a standard issue camera were revealed in batches of 24 or 36, no sooner than a week after the final picture was snapped. It is possible that a picture of Colin, Corey or Court in the rocket does exist. But I am more likely to fly that space ship to Mars than dig through endless boxes in the crawl space for pictures that might or might not exist. I digress.
Last year I took Bryce and Tyler to Rocket Park. Little ones never have problems with the UP in that rocket. Their excitement and imaginations are both soaring. Blast off! and they have reached the first landing as I'm still closing car doors.
At the second level, there is an escape hatch - the slide. It was pretty easy to convince Tyler to avail himself of that option. At least it was, until Bryce beckoned him upward to levels three and four. At this point the old adage of what goes up must come down seems doubtful. While a three year old can scamper up, getting his foot on the top rung to make the downward trip is not guaranteed.
I am ground control - I want to be ground control - I hope I can just be ground control! And fortunately, between my direction and Bryce's hands-on guidance, splash down came without a splat. (I just realized that rockets don't splash down anymore. I'm aging myself. But then, you already know I'm a Granma.)
A couple of weeks ago, we visited that celestial-bound wonder once again, though this time Bryce was not with us. I attempted to keep Tyler focused on levels one and two. It didn't work. However, I am happy to report that four year olds are able to navigate the stars - and back - with only minor assistance from ground control. This is one happy Granma!
Sorry, Aidan. You need another birthday before I introduce you to that flying machine. Let's swing instead.