Can I be honest with you for one moment? I hate the playground. I do. It's Hell for me. Since our daughter, Charlotte (now eighteen months old) has been able to walk, the playground has become a veritable hotbed of agita, as far as I'm concerned (as I may have already bemoaned here.) While our little one absolutely adores going, I find it about as fun as getting a root canal. But, what am I supposed to do? Not take her? Obviously, that's completely out of the question, so I'm learning to deal with it.
In the summer of 1983, Soul Diva/Führer Diana Ross staged a spectacularly disastrous concert on the Great Lawn of Central Park that was rife with elemental and criminal tumult. The lone positive aspect of the fiasco was that Ross donated proceedings to the building of a playground on 80th Street off of Central Park West. While I'm not planning on staging any riot-courting event that could send our fine city into a tense tailspin anytime soon, should I ever be in the position of erecting my own playground, I'd lay down some hard and fast rules for playground protocol with an enforcement policy that would make Rudy Giuliani seem as strict as a doting pastry chef.
For example, were it up to me, outside playthings (i.e. toys, especially those miniature, doll-sized baby strollers) would be absolutely VERBOTEN! Being far too young to respect the flimsy concept of "ownership," much less the elusive notion of "sharing," little people are hugely prone to engage in tiny hand-to-hand combat the moment some non-forward thinking parent brings a bright red Tonka truck or Tickle Me Elmo into the situation, morphing otherwise indifferent youth at play into diminutive gladiators. Oh sure, it's entertaining, but once your own tow-headed tot is involved in a vicious scrap over some Spongebob Squarepants artifact, the fun's over in a big way.
Another of my lovingly cultivated peeves concerns bringing bigger kids into the playground. The park we frequent comes conveniently equipped with two playgrounds; one for the stroller set and one for the snot-nosed, shrill shrieking, back-talking, ripe-for-a-smack contingent. If I had my way, there'd be a vast swathe of concrete between these two areas, patrolled by trigger-happy thugs with semi-automatic weapons and underfed, easily agitated Doberman Pincers. But, sadly, there isn't. As such, one must suffer the more-than-occasional nuisance of having a hyperactive pre-teen, addled from five fun-sized Snicker bars too many, rampaging through an area reserved for wobbly, newly mobile toddlers. Just this morning, I had to somewhat strenuously restrain myself from going all Rollerball on one such whistleheaded six year old brat after he brazenly knocked my little girl onto her mercifully full-diapered behind (a mixed blessing to be sure). While nothing would have brought me more satisfaction than to have punted him through the uprights, I grimly demured, flashing a lethal hairy eyeball to his oblivious, disinterested and entirely ineffectual nanny.
Decorum forbids, however. Thus, I stand from the sidelines, gritting my teeth and doing my best not to be one of those parents who follow close behind their child, nervously swatting away all comers for fear of unpleasant interaction. Our daughter's got to learn to adapt to the world, and if that means pairing off against her pint-sized peers and falling on her little butt every now and then, so be it. That's just the way it works.
(the author at the playground, doing an especially poor job of concealing his distaste).
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