{column1}So last night I was alone at the dam when several lovely families brought their children down to meet the beavers. They were respectful and hushed as their eyes sparkled with the wonder of seeing a beaver kit up close. Watchers from Bertolas on the opposite bank came as well, one a young father with a pouty 2 year old diner who was taking a break from the table to walk outside. The frustrated father picked the brightly frocked little girl and held her to see the beavers. She kept insisting ‘down down’ in the compelling way that two year-olds advocate their case. So he lifted her over the yellow wall and dropped her onto the concrete surface of the sheet pile. “Now you’re down”. He observed, “happy?”. Of course she wasn’t happy, she was scared, which was his point. She was TWO though so she wasn’t ready to give up her point. She started backing away towards the water, unsure whether she should come back or stay and defend her hard-won freedom.
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So I have a day job that’s focused on the complicated work of helping parents and children and mostly I make a conscious choice to stay out of things when I’m not in the office, but flashing in my minds’ eye was the possibility of the toddler falling into the creek, dad jumping in to rescue her, a kit swimming over to investigate and someone getting hurt. The city would go ballistic and the beavers would get blamed and I’ve have a zero sheet-pile tolerance policy. So I braced myself and said he needed to pick her up, and that she wasn’t allowed on the wall. He of course replied that he knew how to parent his kid, and I should mind my own beeswax but picked her begrudgingly up, which was my only goal. Tragedy averted. Beavers and toddlers safe. Stressful but safe.
As I was leaving that night I saw another rough-looking young man with a befrocked two year old daughter on the opposite bank. He had brought her down to see the beavers but it was so dark he thought it better wait until another night. I was still cautious from my last parenting interaction, so I was slinking towards the car but he asked brightly when was the best time to see them, and how mother had died. I answered some irresistable questions. He was happy to know that the three kits were safe and that he could see them if he came earlier while it was light. He also worried sweetly about the pipe, saying, “I heard they put that in to catch the beavers” which made me smile. “No, no. Its a good pipe. It helps the beavers stay here” and he was so pleased and said he’d come back another night.
(Someone tell Skip, if the pipe was put in to “catch” the beavers, it’s not working very well!)
So the night of risky parenting was rounded perfectly by a glimpse of delightful parenting, and the beavers continue to make more friends than even I can manage to make enemies. Three were seen last night, ooohs and ahhhs were spoken, and the tale of the “Good pipe” lives on to be told another day.
