2016-03-20 - 10:39 p.m.

We went out hopefully, the temp finally in the 50s, good weather for finding other kids. The apartment playground was empty earlier, but having had enough of rereading the same comic books and silly adventure stories, Paloma strapped on her roller skates again. A single kid has to be aggressive in finding playmates.

“I’m such a big risk-taker,” she said as she pushed the pace in her skates. “You sure are,” I said, clasping her hand and thinking about the million childhood fears that organize her life. “It’s one of the best things you can do, is take risks. You take calculated risks.”

That got me off into a whole digression on the meaning and value of calculated risks, from not crossing the street without looking both ways, to the market crash way back when she was born. The Great Recession, I told her, playing the wise old man, right around the time you were born. Kinda like the Great Depression, only not nearly as bad. By the time the history lesson was over, we were in sight of the tennis court, where a handful of older kids were kicking a ball around.

While I walked Coco, Paloma skated over in hopes of joining the group, interjecting a joke here and there, while the other kids half-ignored her. A few minutes later she was calling over to me to help her change into her sneakers. She leaned over me, grasping my hair for balance, as I yanked off the skate and directed her foot into a sneaker.

“You doing okay over there? Are they including you?”

“Well, they’re not really including me. But technically I am included,” she said as she pushed into the second sneaker. “I’m having a little try to be included.” She raced back to the kids.

Having a little try to be included. Wish I had done more of that when I was a kid. That’s my little risk taker.

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