"Why not?" I see her arm fly up in the rearview and she is pointing again. "There's a spot. Park there."

This time she's right. I slow to a stop next to the metered space knowing I don't have any quarters. "It's Sunday so I shouldn't have to pay, right?" Isa is not quite four years old but chances are she knows better than I do. She's that kind of kid.

"You can park there," she insists. I realize she'll do anything to get out of the car. Even if she knows the meter rules, she's too frustrated with me to answer questions.

I swing into the spot and turn off the engine. "I'm gonna look at the other meters to see if everyone else is paying today." I open my door and climb out, then lean back in. "I'll be right back and we'll either move the car or get you out."

She smiles. "Lauren?"

"What?"

She kicks her legs and sighs. "Just put some money in and let's go."

I grin at her. "I'll be right back."

The meters in front of mine are both flashing FAIL. Back in the car, Isa is swinging her legs just hard enough to deliver gentle kicks to the back of the passenger seat. Her voice floats out the open window in a staccato chant to no one in particular. "Just put some money in. Just put some money in."

I unbuckle her carseat and offer my hand just as she reaches for it. Once she's steady on the pavement, I tousle her tangled blond head. "If we get a ticket," I tell her, "you're paying it."

"What?" She grips my hand more tightly as we step off a curb to cross an empty street. She's being careful, I think to myself. Good girl.

"If we get a parking ticket, I'm gonna make you pay it because you talked me into this."

We make our way slowly across the street, her little legs rushing three steps to each of mine. She easily ascends a high curb at the other side and I recall how only months ago she would tense her arm so I could help her navigate such obstacles.

There is nothing between us and the playground now but grass. I expect her to drop my hand and run, to cross that line where all that exists is what's ahead of her, but this doesn't happen. "Did you put money in?" she asks.

"I don't have any change." She hesitates mid-step and I give her a little tug to set her walking again. "We can still go," I assure her. "It's Sunday so I think we'll be OK."

"But if we get a ticket, I have to pay it?"

"Exactly. I hear you have a piggy bank at your mama's house."

"A flower bank," she corrects. "With money in it."

"That's the one. If we get a ticket, it's coming out of your flower bank."

She squints up at the sun, then back across the expanse of bright grass where kids streak through sandpits and scamper up slides before their parents can yell at them to get down that's too dangerous. Still clutching my hand as we approach, she nods. "OK," she says. "That's fine."

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