Wildwood State Park
The remainder of the hike didn't go as well, mostly because Miranda decided she was tired, first of walking and then, incredibly, of being carried. We debated turning around until we reached the exact place where it was a thirty-five minute walk in either direction, and this is when Miranda entered some sort of Memento loop wherein she only understood the following three things:
1) I'm tired of walking.
2) I'm tired of being carried.
3) Are we going to Grandma's house?
I addressed these, relentlessly, as follows:
1) Everyone else is walking.
2) Nobody else is being carried.
3) We're going to Grandma's house in ten days.
To which Miranda replied, earnestly, as though we might not know, and it was important that we truly understand:
1) I'm tired of walking.
2) I'm tired of being carried.
3) Are we going to Grandma's house?
Then the woodlands of Eastern Long Island transformed into a sort of Euro discotheque, wherein Miranda, in my arms, jamming a "pink" (red) leaf into my nostrils, mixed the order, sometimes lingering on 3) up to five times in a row (Grandma-Grandma-Grandma-Grandma-Grandma) before spinning a few 1) or tossing in 2) to keep us all on our toes. Her toes were in the air.
Finally, after a couple of miles, Miranda spotted a playground, which she legit sprinted to with newfound reserves of energy. She left maybe thirty minutes later, aggressively crying, because she both wanted to stay and leave. Her teenage years should be FINE. The rest of the day she forgot about being tired and only mentioned Grandma's house six or seven hundred thousand times.
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