What’s the One Rule When Playing with the Big Boys?

I’ve lived in NYC a long time, and have had many a great City Moment, but this one warms my heart in a way that is hard to describe.

One afternoon last winter some older boys, I’d say 5th or 6th grade, just happen to be on the playground when the Boy’s school friends were leaving.

Boy approached, and confidently asked them to play tag with him and his sister. I was amused to see they were mildly impressed.

You see, my son is tall and broad, and is often mistaken for being several years older than he is, until he speaks. If you had only an audio recording, you’d have no trouble pegging him as a six year old he was.

One of the boys was, from my perspective, the more genuine kid. His mannerisms, the way he conducted himself with my far younger children, I’d bet money he has little kids in his life somewhere, and he loves them.

All of which was particularly endearing because he had the perfect IDGAF long, dark, shaggy hair that hung just limply enough over his eyes. He was bundled in a bulky field-type jacket and baggy pants, but had the most striking blue knit gloves.

I watched them closely, not because I was concerned, but rather because this kid had everything I’d ever crushed on when I was a young girl.