At the playground today, a boy who is at least a year older than Margot pushed her over when she tried to ascend the steps to the baby slide. (Oh, did I mention that she can walk the steps to the slide and go down by herself? I'm so proud.)
She tumbled down and then looked back at him, her pride wounded and her clothes dirty. His mom walked toward the kids, still on her cell phone. The moment slowed, and I watched Margot carefully from ten feet away. She straightened herself up, brushed her clothes off, and looked straight at the boy. I wondered: would she push him back? Would she cry? Would she run to me?
None of the above.
She finished dusting her clothes, still eyeing the boy. She then grabbed the handrail, and walked up the stairs.
The boy later hugged her, unprompted. And so begins playground antics - you know, a boy pushing the girl he likes because he doesn't know how to tell her.
Wait, does this mean Margot has a boyfriend?