I think of my nieces as themselves... not as their parent's children.
If I ever do think of them as someone's child, it's often the moms that I think of.
However this weekend, as I saw them explore all our old play places on Chestnut Hill, and interact with each other, I was keenly aware that I was watching my brother's children.
"Aunt Lindsay!! We found this great place," they shouted from inside the tunnel of lilac bushes that I spent countless hours playing house in as a small girl.
"LOOK!!" they screeched, as they hung onto the same willow tree branches that my hands held years ago, and swung with abandon.
Growing up, Evan & I were always wanting to play, do, and have adventures. Darren was content to read 23 out of the 24 hours in any given day.
I remember the frustration of wanting him to come and make it the three of us having fun, and not just the two of us. (Probably because at the time in our lives, Evan & I were not what we would refer to as friends, and Darren was a fabulous peacekeeper) The deep sighs of disappointment coming from the redhead and myself, as the eldest would inform us that he was happy to keep reading, thank you.
And this weekend, from behind a closed door, I heard Evan's little girl heave a deep sigh, as Darren's little girl curled up in the pappazon chair, reading to her heart's content.
And I smiled.
