Emry was much too small to remember her first visit to a park. In fact, I’m not even sure she was two months old yet. Ed had it in his head that the first park she mustvisit was South Park in Pittsburgh, his old stomping grounds. For that matter, his mother grew up going to that park. In fact, his parents met there. His brother worked there. We even had our rehearsal “dinner” there. Personally, I preferred North Park in Pittsburgh, but one can’t beat out nostalgia, right?
When Ethan came along, nostalgia had been satisfied. His first park trip was at only two weeks old because we walked up the hill the park at the elementary school nearby so Emry could play and run off some energy. He visited parks a lot as a baby. All part of being a second-born.
Since Emry is my cautious child, it took her nearly three years to get over her fear of swings. Slides could be too high to risk. Why would anyone want to hang on bars? Tunnels were the only thing she absolutely loved. Ethan has never had anxieties. He’s always loved swings. Slides aren’t his favorite, but he’ll follow Emry. Of course bars are meant to be hanged upon…and tunnels to climb. Very little fear – or common sense.
To be honest, watching my kids play on playgrounds has probably caused me more fear than them. More than once my heart has skipped a beat and I have stopped breathing as I watch broken arms, busted heads and skinned up body parts become near misses. I wonder yet again how my mom did it. I was certainly never careful on a playground, vaulting off whatever, swinging about any bar available and walking every narrow object possible in my all-consuming daydreams of being the next Mary Lou Retton. Maybe she didn’t watch. I try not to, but I simply can’t help it. If Ethan is going to break something, I’m going to watch it happen.
My children are no different than any other child found on the playground. In fact, they are a great deal less adventurous than some. But even though playgrounds are inspected for safety, that’s a misnomer in so many ways. The warning labels printed on them and the age suggestions are futile. They’re accidents waiting to happen. Which is the definition of childhood. So, I stand back and let my kids be kids.
And like so many aspects of parenting, it increases my faith.
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