Since embarking on my regrettably non-negotiable 100 day exile from work, I've been mucking in more with the daily care of my little children, ideally giving my wife a bit of a well-deserved breather in the process. I've been escorting them to and from their far-flung school across the East Village and sitting in with their little classes. The midpoint of this week saw the beginning of their spring break, and neither child had school, so I volunteered to let my wife sleep in and took them out for a long day of perilous playgrounding.
I've mentioned it several times before, but I just don't enjoy the playground. I know, I know -- it's not about me, but the point I'm making is that I find it really stressful. Where my wife is a decidedly hands-off guardian, prone to chatting away with other moms as our little ones play, I'm more of the protective hyena type. I'm more than happy to let them run around and have fun, so long as my watchful eye can find them at every point. Maybe that's an unrealistic method, but I can't abide the notion of not at least knowing where they are and what they're up to. I've started to relax a bit with Charlotte -- now five and largely able to fend for herself and make sound decisions -- but I still stick close by little Oliver, who just turned three (that's him above, striking an unintentionally Michael Jackson-ish pose).
I've come to be this nervy and hawk-like at the playground after years of seeing bigger kids thoughtlessly bowl over toddlers, tots fall head first off of ladders, unattended two-year-olds get slammed in the temple after scampering into the trajectory of a swing and vicious hand-to-hand combat ensue over the disputed ownership of a discarded plastic toy. Make no mistake about it; the playground can be a wellspring of conflict if you're not paying attention. The knocks come hard and the diplomacy is very delicate.
So yesterday afternoon, after an already long day, I was back with the kids in the Washington Square Park playground. It being one of the first semi-decent days of this rather cruel Spring, the place was packed. A nation of giddy children scampered around while bored nannies sat on the sidelines, idly gabbing into cell-phones. Charlotte managed to find a gaggle of her usual partners-in-crime and skipped off to the eastern end of the playground, while Oliver spent most of his time foraging around in the (frankly rather grim) sandbox.
On a busy day, the sandbox -- or sand-covered area, as it were -- can be a veritable mosh pit. The sand itself always seems disconcertingly damp and filthy and god only knows what's lurking just underneath its patina of city grime. It's strewn with broken plastic toys, a few mangled pails and -- crucially -- exceptionally few shovels. Being that the shovel is an essential tool for the enjoyment of sand (if you're under the age of six), it is a hotly sought-after and deeply divisive item. The lucky few that prize them understandably tend to hold onto them. If you don't find one early (or manage to deftly snatch one from a departing child), I'm afraid you're pretty much shit out of luck.
Oliver was determined to find one. I tried to persuade him to try the swings or the slide, but he was having none of it. All he wanted to do, evidently, was dig in the sand with a shovel. For a while, we used to keep a shovel in our stroller for just such an occasion, but too often they got lost in the shuffle or pilfered by some fleet-fingered moppet. Back among the ranks of the chronically shovelless, Oliver was forced to search and wait for one.
After what seemed like an eternity (the slowest increments of time known to this planet occur at the playground), little Oliver grabbed a shovel that was recently left behind by another child. His little round face lit up as if he'd just found a chunky bill-fold. He let out an audible little cheer and at once commenced digging a hole adjacent to a ramp that connected the sandbox to the rest of the playground, happily babbling to himself. Relieved that Oliver had achieved his goal, I leant back against the gate and continued chatting with another parent.
As if on cue, a pair of reckless, squabbling five-year olds ill-advisedly sharing a miniature plastic trike came careening down the ramp, heading straight for oblivious Oliver. I sprang. The bigger kids plowed headlong into Oliver, sending everyone up in the air in a mushroom cloud of sand. The two bigger kids continued to tussle, with my son caught in the crossfire. I reached down and plucked Oliver out of the melee, resisting the urge to punt one of these two little marauders in the gums. Retreating with Oliver out of the sandbox, I found my little son beside himself not because of the collision, but because I'd interrupted his digging (especially after all his endless searching). He wriggled violently, demanding to be put down. Dutifully, I leant down and let Oliver out of my grasp. He scrambled frantically back to the spot where he'd been playing. By this point, the two bigger kids had grabbed the shovel, and were now fighting over it themselves in a teeth-clenched tug-of-war. Teary-eyed Oliver pointed at the shovel and let out a bereaved little wail. He then arched his back and threw himself down on the sand in abject heartbreak. It was a bit like the histrionic final scene of "Planet of the Apes;" a diminutive Charlton Heston discovering that all he'd fought so hard for has been forever ruined.
I walked over and picked Oliver up out of the sand and attempted to comfort him. In reality, had I just left well enough alone, Oliver could have maintained his grasp on the shovel and the bigger kids would have gone on fighting about the trike. Had I only not intervened -- even out of the best intentions -- he'd have managed to keep that damn shovel. Now, his shovel was gone, he was openly devastated and I was crestfallen. Would he ever forgive me?
About five minutes later, Oliver had seemingly forgotten all about it and was happily scampering up some monkey bars, but the cinematic image of my tearily incredulous little boy pointing at his lost shovel before throwing himself to the ground in despair continues to haunt me.
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