“Mimi, be the monster.”
And I chase her around the climbing structure and over the smallest slide, switching direction and responding with hands raised, fingers wide, as I roar and she screams the child’s scream of pretend.
It’s not so hard to be a monster when a child is three and wants to play. It means you will get sand in your shoe and your knees will hurt tonight but otherwise, there’s not much skill involved. The more children you engage, and they are all willing to engage, the more power you have around ever more playground equipment and climbing structures and slides. The parents who sit on those benches, chatting with each other and checking their phones—I wonder if they every play Monster and if they realize how much they owe me for the true workout I am giving their children. I wonder if they pause to admire me or think what a foolish old woman or consider being a Monster partner or even wonder what they’re missing.
As Monsters go, I am not a threat to my little tribe or the ones who supervise them. No young man, at least no stranger, could be the monster. No teenager in the wrong garb could be the monster. I am, in fact, the perfect monster. Old enough to be benign and young enough, barely, to still do the sand run, dashes and pivots.
Fact is, there is no part that I would not play, on request, for my granddaughters. “Mimi, be the doctor!” “Mimi, be the bus driver!” “Mimi, be all the boys. We’ll be all the girls.” The world of pretend suits me in all roles - no type casting for me.
"Mimi?"
I’m off again. A very average, very grateful monster.
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