River jumps off some playground equipment and comes barreling over to me.

I NEED WATER.

Without much thought, I take out my Klean Kanteen and hand it over to him. He tips it too far and water dribbles down his shirt.

I MADE A MESS AND NOW I AM WET, he announces.

It’s alright, I say, patting his shirt with a napkin. It happens.

He’s off again, running, up the steps, down the slide, pulling his little body over metal bars and through padded hoops, little sneakers lighting up as he moves, blinking.

I sit on a bench a few feet away, letting my phone buzz in my bag, knowing that constantly pulling it out to type a text or a Tweet takes me away from the present. It puts a barrier between me and him and his brother. And in a crowded New York City playground, when it’s two of them versus me, it only takes a few seconds to lose sight of both of them completely.

River comes back over to me.

DID YOU KNOW THAT A LITTLE LADY JUST ASKED ME TO GIVE HER A TURN ON THAT SWINGY THING?

A little lady? I ask, amused.

YEP! A LITTLE LADY! SHE IS WEARING PINK. I GAVE HER A TURN TO BE POLITE!

Oh, River, I say. And I scoop him up in a hug which he resists.

BUT I AM NOT GOING TO MARRY HER.

That’s alright, I say, leaving a hand on his back, giving him a little rub. You can’t marry everybody.

I AM GOING TO MARRY A GIRL NAMED CHLOE WHO LIVES IN PROVIDENCE.

Oh my, I say, taking a sip of coffee.

He sits next to me on the bench, big blue eyes staring up at me.

DO YOU KNOW WHY I WANT TO MARRY HER?

Tell me.

BECAUSE WHEN I MET HER, SHE WAS THE NICEST.

Cool!

SHE IS ACTUALLY IN MY TOP FIVE OF NICE.

Wow!

NO. He stops to brush a piece of hair out of his eyes. ACTUALLY SHE IS IN THE FIRST PLACE OF NICE.

Wow! First place!

SO I AM GOING TO MARRY HER. AND WE WILL HAVE BABIES.

How many? I want to know.

THREE!

He jumps up again to join his brother on this insane torture device, a circle that you can sit on that goes around and around. Next to it on the ground is a small puddle of puke.

I wonder what about that piece of equipment makes kids puke? a dad marvels to me.

I laugh.

I know, right? I wouldn’t last a second on it.

But the twins do. They stay on it forever. Around and around they go, pushed and pulled by other kids. Occasionally, a small child underestimates exactly how fast it can move and goes flying off it onto the ground. They don’t cry though, which amazes me. They just sort of stand up and falter a little, as if drunk or recovering from a night of being really high. Eyes glazed over and a dazed look on their face as their parents rush over to help. They just stand there like woah man, those were some fucking crazy drugs.

River wants to keep talking to me though so he begs the other kids to slow it down so he can jump off.

KIDS, he screams. CAN YOU PLEASE STOP THE RIDE?

He dismounts and comes over to me.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT I AM GOING TO NAME MY THREE CHILDREN?

I have no idea, I say.

Flowers, God and Wasserstein*.

Um, but Wasserstein is your last name.

RIGHT.

So your kid will be named Wasserstein Wasserstein?

YES.

Okay, so you’ll have three kids and they will be named Flowers, God and Wasserstein Wasserstein.

YES! A BOY AND TWIN GIRLS! I MUST HAVE TWIN GIRLS!

Oh, how lovely, I say. I hope Chloe likes those names.

SHE WILL! SHE WILL LOVE THOSE NAMES!

And he’s gone again.

Their mom told me later that they had to have “The God Talk” recently because kids at school kept bringing it up and Owen and River, who aren’t raised with any religion, were confused. I had already commented on it a few times when it came up in conversation, using the safety phrase “Some people believe…”. In high school, I babysat for a practicing Catholic family so it didn’t really matter what I said. It’s different now though and I’m not sure such conversations should be left up to me.

Their mom laughed really hard when I told her about River’s planned baby names.

“The God thing is interesting,” she said. “I wonder if by naming his child God, it’s a way for him to definitively know that God exists.”

Deep.

I’m not sure.

The funny thing about children is that they waffle back and forth between saying the most hilarious things and then throwing out something insanely deep that makes you pause like WOAH LITTLE DUDE.

I recall my friend Laurie relating a Tweet she read from a preschool teacher, something one of her students said to another classmate during play time.

“I would like for you to say ‘wow’ when I say that you can never be in love with me again.”

My God. Yes. It hit me like a ton of bricks when I heard it. I would like for you to say ‘wow’…

River and Owen continually say similar things – that just because you’re small you can still be strong, that they will name their kid God, that mom and dad live in separate apartment buildings and they should be married and live together and have a sister for them but they asked and both of them said no so they will just keep having two birthday parties but Laura, you should stay married to one person and so will I.

Sigh.

My God, little ones.

I wish it was that easy.

On the way home from the park, River sang Rihanna songs and Owen told me that if girls eat too much Swedish fish, they will turn into a boy. I told him I wasn’t sure that was true, that surely it didn’t happen that easily. If it did, a whole bunch of surgeons would be out of work, you know?

LAURAAAAAAAAA, he said. Because he didn’t know. Because I’m attempting to have a conversation about transgender and all he wants me to know is SERIOUSLY, you can grow a penis if you eat too much Swedish fish, LOOK OUT.

We spent an hour coloring Halloween decorations and then their mom called to ask if we wanted to meet her at a restaurant for dinner.

OH YES YES! River clapped. I LOVE MOM! And we took a cab and met her there.

Over dinner, I related some of our playground conversation.

Oh, Chloe, their mom said. I’ve heard a lot about her.

River told me she’s in the first place of nice, I said.

Is that true, Riv? she asked.

OH YES, River confirmed, doing a word search with a green crayon.

Is she nicer than Laura? his mom asked.

River looked across the table at me and smiled slowly.

No, he said simply. Not nicer than Laura.

I laughed and thanked him and the conversation moved on.

I marveled at the fact that we were eating at a restaurant and that it was enjoyable. I remembered attempting to take the boys out when they were two or three, chasing them all over the place, picking up stuff they threw on the floor, shrieking and crying and never sitting still. And yet, there they sat. Two of them, scribbling furiously with crayons in little activity books, taking bites of bread and fries and chocolate cake, participating in conversation and making me laugh.

I never thought that five years ago, I would still be taking them to the playground, to a restaurant, out for a walk. I no longer have to put them in the baby swings or give them bottles while I pushed them in a stroller or sing four lullabies in the same specific order every night in order for them to fall asleep. I didn’t know that I would know Owen and River at six years old. How could I?

And things might change. I’m sure they will. Every so often, I think about the fact that I’m getting a little old to spend every Saturday working. That it might be time to scale it back as the money I make is no longer vital to my survival, I no longer depend on it or need it in quite the same way I used to. I could have Saturdays for friends or naps or dates or bottles of wine.

But how do I give up being nicer than First Place of Nice?

Quite frankly, I’d much rather not.

So I don’t.

And next Saturday, I will ring their doorbell and they will come running for hugs and we will talk about Chloe or Swedish fish or Rihanna or nothing at all and they will hold my hand and drink from my water bottle and splash me while they take a bath and I will smile and laugh and let them know that spending time with them is the best way to spend a day.

Better than first place of nice?

You both are better than first place of Anything.

*Not their real last name