“Erin, look. There’s a duck.”
“Ya goo.”
“See? In the pond. And there’s her little babies swimming after her.”
“Iyee.”
“Hi, that’s right. Say hi to the ducks. Hi duck babies.”
“Hyee.”

When I was younger, single and childless, I used to take long walks in the woods by myself, getting away from the noise of traffic and the daily conversation. I’d watch the birds hop from branch to branch, the chipmunks scurry into the brush or, best of all, find a brook and flow a leaf dancing its way downstream, the water weaving around the rocks as the ducks crash landed. I’d have a running interior monologue of observations, or better yet, I would be a careful quiet witness.

“There’s a wildflower, Erin.”
“Bip, bip, bip, bip, bip, bip.”
“It’s purple. I don’t know what it’s called.”
“Dat. Dat.”
“You want it? Smell it. It smells good.”
“Dat. Dat.”
“No, that’s eating, Erin. Smell … Well … Does it taste good?”

I didn’t have the luxury of time alone like that anymore. When I come home from work, Anne has been taking care one-year-old Erin and three-year-old Zak for about nine hours. She’s usually hot. She’s usually tired. She’s usually run out of tricks to keep two toddlers entertained. She thinks – and I usually agree – that I should take care of one or both of them – preferably out of the house or away from the car where they’ve been all day. We all need to be alone.

So I take Zak on my bike or sit them both in the stroller or put Erin in her Baby Bjorn backpack and we go. I don’t get as far as I used to. By the bridge down the street or on the road next to the Silvermine River, we can still hear the car horns on the highway, or on this day with Erin, the racing motorcycles, but we can also see the ducks and the water and an occasional leaf riding the current..

“Yi Yee.”
“That’s a motorcycle, Erin, going very fast.”
“Yi Yee. Yi yee.”
“No, Erin, don’t clap. We’re trying to discourage that kind of behavior.”
Unimpressed by my caution, she stretches high in her backpack and laughs. Her love of excitement scares me – much more than my love of excitement ever did.

More often than not, we’re quiet, walking or riding in silence, watching and listening thoughtfully. But sometimes the need arises for one of us to share an observation.

“See the swan, Erin?”
“San.”
“Swan, That’s right. It’s trying to fly. Come on, swan! Get that big body off the water!”
“Sun.”
“That’s right. Swan. Come on swan. Yes. That’s it. Now we should clap.”

I don’t miss being alone as I once defined aloneness. When Erin and I or Zak and I are alone together, I feel connected. I feel in charge. I feel at peace. I come back renewed and ready for my louder and less predictable home.

First published in Fairfield County Kids,  May 1992