The Developmental Necessity of the Carousel

I sat by the carousel in Central Park, watching M and E go up and down and around and around. Each time they came round the bend toward the bench where I sat, their faces were solemn, their eyes eagerly scanning. Then they'd catch sight of me and light up, waving ecstatically and turning their heads to keep me in view for as long as possible. Sometimes they held hands. Sometimes they performed balletic horseback-riding arm and head dances.

I remembered when I used to have to ride too, holding toddlers on the back of the horse, then standing by little kids, old enough to hold on but not to ride by themselves. Now there is no question that they will ride on their own, which is fine because the carousel makes me dizzy these days. But it's still essential that I be just beyond the fence, scanning the oncoming horses and waving madly when I see them.

This is growing up: you go off to the far side of the carousel on your own, and then you come back and your mother is there waving, and you wave back, and then you're off on your own again, and again, and again.