I saw the sweetest thing today while walking Mark to school.
A dad ahead of us was also walking his son to school. They were a contrast in size: dad was very tall, and lanky, while his son was...well, tiny. He was just a little bitty guy, a brand-new kindergartner. The dad wore a baseball cap, and his son's backpack carelessly slung over his own shoulder.
They were holding hands, just walking along. Suddenly Dad let go, threw his knee up into the air and leapt forward, slowly, in what looked like an impression of Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. He repeated with the other knee: up into the air, slowly followed by another gargantuan step forward. I realized he was skipping, and that his little boy was watching intently.
After a few forward steps, Dad turned back to the boy, who shrugged, and sent his own small legs into the air. Where his dad had taken one giant step, the boy took seven smaller ones. Somehow, he ended up moving sideways and stopped. His head fell, obviously dejected that he couldn't skip as well as his dad.
The dad bent toward him, said something encouraging, and started over again. He was so tall, his long legs flew awkwardly, but he didn't care. He just skipped off in long strides, his baseball cap and backpack bouncing along, looking like a giant kid. His son kicked up his legs, and skipped after him.
I don't know why it moved me so much, but it did. It was parenting at its best: not showy or pretentious, just quiet, and heartwarming. It was a father teaching his young son a skill the rest of us take for granted. I mean, I can't even remember when or how I ever learned to skip; I just always recall being able to.
But I'll certainly remember the day that little boy ahead of me learned, and what a sweet lesson that was.
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