The Playground of Broken Toys
In Brooklyn
Yesterday we took our little great-nephew to the playground. He sat in the stroller and pointed out motorcycles and trucks as we walked.
When we arrived, his eyes sparkled at the wealth of tireless cars, handleless buggies, and a random assortment of thrown-out junk. It was all there for everyone to share. We’d already heard about this playground, which O liked, except for the fountain. He hoped, he said, that it was broken.
But it was working, after all, so he scowled at it. We held hands, checking out the scene, and he smiled the moment he saw the little red car.
O, who is a precocious 2 ½-year-old with big brown eyes, refused to be distracted by the yellow train car missing an axle or the blue bike missing part of its handle. He only wanted to drive the little red car.
It had a horn to beep, and you could pretend to put in gas. To O, it probably looked perfect, but it was old and faded, and someone had dumped it at the Playground of Broken Toys.
The place was littered with broken toys and hopping with parents of all kinds, sizes, and shapes chasing small people of various kinds, sizes, and shapes. O led us as far around the fountain as possible (because it was so messy) as he made his way to the little red car.
Another boy got to it first, and O patiently watched it make its way around the swings and benches, the slides, and the baby swings. He started following the little red car, and we worried that he was having a terrible time, but suddenly it was his turn. He glowed as he checked the gas, got inside, and beeped the horn.
Then a naughty child banged on the plastic door and yelled, “GET OUT!”
O cringed. The mother nabbed the kid before he could physically drag O out of the car, but to our shock, she yelled, “You know what happens to bullies? Stop being such a bully!”
How would a 3-year-old know what a bully was?
Although we boomers have been accused of making billions of mistakes (hello bumper pads, constant gratification, and participation awards), we knew not to call our kids names. We knew to say, “Let’s play with something else until it’s our turn,” or something equally harmless. The little bully’s mother couldn’t keep up with him — he was suddenly back at the little red car banging and demanding his turn again.
O is such a sweetie pie, he dutifully but regretfully got out of the car and then stood sadly watching it drive away, the budding bully’s little feet providing the motion. O listlessly dragged us across the playground, hoping for another chance. We pointed out one fun-looking toy after another, but he just kept searching for the little red car.
He finally got a turn, and we moved it to a side area because we’re the aunt and uncle and can get away with things that parents cannot do. Over the next ten or so minutes, we pushed the red car around as O beamed with joy. The golden moment ended when someone else approached the car, but by then, O was happy.
I thought about all the discarded toys that end up in dumps — why don’t more parents donate them to playgrounds where anyone can use them? Is it because we’re all so fearful of each other? Is it because parents are worried about being sued if they donate a little red car that someone one day falls out of? Is it because the playground police like everything to be neat and orderly, and would not approve of faded, broken plastic toys missing all kinds of parts?
Kudos to that playground in Brooklyn for moving past the potential hazards. Parents can wipe down toys before letting their children use them, and they can supervise so that accidents are avoided. The important thing is that every child should be able to drive a little red car if that’s his dream.
