Why I Stopped Taking My Child to the Park
Thoughts on playground design.
“Whose child is that?”
I could hear the voices abuzz from beyond the other side of my book, held up in front of my face. Right where it should be when I am sitting on a park bench.
I knew they were talking about my son, and about me, the negligent mother, whose child was on top of the high-in-the-air slide tunnel — yes, the top! Where no truly loved and cared for child would ever be caught.
Before the park folks came along and mutilated the beauty of the local pine by cutting off all its limbs — anything within a giant’s reach — my son was often found gloriously high up in its branches.
Come to think of it, maybe it was those same caring folks who called the municipality to come by with their chainsaws and save my boy.
There came a day
Someone actually peered over my wall — I mean, my book. And said, accusingly, “Is he yours?” In that moment, I was done with the park.
This was my third son. It took me two to be ready for him; he was The Climber.
When he was 13 months old, I built a tree-house for the older two and — thinking I was clever — I left out the lower rungs of the ladder, so only the two older could…
