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The Swing of Things

Why a Dad Went Back to the Park

By Mark Stackpole

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So I have followed his advice. I have paid attention.

I have chased my son as he kicks a giant rubber ball bigger than he is. I have enjoyed imaginary tea from a tiny cup poured by a daughter who is growing up way too fast. I have rested my head on my wife's burgeoning belly as she prepares to give birth to the last addition to our family.

I do these things all the time and enjoy them immensely. How did I not recognize them as "joy"? The breeze rifling through the trees as I spend a Monday with my kids at the local zoo. The pre-verbal poetry of my babbling boy. My daughter memorizing the first 26 pages of her Peter Rabbit book. The promise of welcoming another child into the world and with him, the opportunity to make the world a better place.

The swings never stopped, I just couldn't remember how they made me feel, which is much more troublesome than me sticking a cotton swab into my ear. What had I missed and how had I missed it? More importantly, how can I make sure not to miss any more? A trip to the park seems to be in order.

Swing, Corinne. Swing, Lucas. When you arrive, Christopher, you make sure to swing, too. And never forget how it makes you feel to pump your legs and prepare to dive into a sea of tanbark.

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