The Family Groove | Postcards from the Edge—of Parenthood

POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE—OF PARENTHOOD
February Postcards

THE FAMILY GROOVE’S RESIDENT MOM-ENTATOR, SASHA
BROWN-WORSHAM, REPORTS ON THE MADNESS OF MOTHERHOOD

PLAYGROUND ETIQUETTE

The other day, I curled up in the basement, drink in hand, ready to enjoy
the two-hour break I would have between bedtime and my son’s first
wake-up when a fly landed on my hand. Spring has officially come to my
little village (and with it, the host of nasty creatures that live in my basement).

Outside, it was a balmy 55 degrees this weekend and we ventured out to the park. This summer, both kids will be able to partake in park revelry, and while Alan probably won’t be walking before his birthday on Aug. 2, he loves the swings and may enjoy crawling over the equipment before summer’s end.

We live in the city. We have no backyard and so, for us, finding the ideal park is a daily task. We scope them all out, seeking the best balance of fun, shade, crowding and cool parents who speak foreign languages but are also proficient enough in English to hold conversations. It can be exhausting.

Last summer was the first year we were really able to get into the playground. Sam was walking, the sun was shining, I was pregnant, and we were hot and bored. We were going to the park once, twice, sometimes three times a day since it was light later and Daddy also liked park time. Some nights, we grabbed a pizza and made a picnic dinner out of the park.

And in all that park time, I gained some playground wisdom, some insight into the rules, regulations and etiquette that fellow parents ought to follow when sharing playground equipment with other city dwellers. Among them:

1. Don’t let your kid throw dirt at my kid.
This one seems easy enough, right? But you would be surprised how few parents actually adhere to this rule. Last year, a nearly-too-old-to-be-on-a-playground he-child threw a handful of stones and mulch at my 16-month-old. While I was wondering if he might have developmental disabilities rendering him incapable of understanding proper behavioral standards, I saw his mother laughing at what he’d done, cigarette hanging in hand. Now, I am not judgmental (who am I kidding?), but it seems to me that, as a parent, you might be better served, I don’t know, parenting, as opposed to lighting up and inflicting your clearly difficult devil spawn on the rest of our city. Perhaps you should have some inflatable pool toys for your son to abuse. At home. Chained to the wall. Okay, I am kidding on that last part. Playground Etiquette

Mostly.

2. Let’s take turns.
While I realize that my child’s cries of “Mommy! Mommy! He took my swing!” might be a bit dramatic and silly, hogging the swing all day so your slightly obese child can twist the chains and watch it spin over…and over…and over—well, that seems a little silly, too. There is a whole world of playground equipment. I don’t stop swinging Sam immediately when I see someone else wants the swing, but I give her an indication that someone else’s turn is coming up. It is just good sense. Besides, your kid might benefit from some time spent running and climbing. I am just saying.

3. If you bring a frilly bike (doll stroller/fire truck ride-on toy/ball), share.
This is probably my biggest park pet peeve—the parents who show up with the shiny toy every kid will covet and then stink-eye you when your kid wants to touch. Sorry, babe, you want private toys, get a backyard. It is just plain cruel to show up at the park, bring a ride-on fire truck with siren, park it by the swings and then scream at anyone who goes near it. I believe brawls—between parents, not kids—have started over less.

4. Ask before handing my kid a Twizzler.
I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. Sharing is fabulous and I realize my drooling, ravenous toddler was practically humping your leg in order to get at the candy you were so generously doling out. But I am her mom. And I am not into Twizzlers. She could choke. I do not feel like rotting her teeth before they have had a chance to grow in. But mostly there is this: You look all nice and mommy-like, but I have not yet had the chance to check the sexual offender registry for your name. Candy from strangers? Not a good plan. Please, for the love of G-d, be discreet, and if you aren’t, allow me the opportunity to decide what my daughter ingests before her drooling red smile gives it away.

5. Talk to me.*
I am totally guilty of this myself, so don’t think for a second that I blame you, but the cliquey moms depress me and make me feel like a trip to the park is like a trip back in time to middle school. Are the moms judging me for my snack choices? The sippy cup I forgot? Or worse, my fashion? Please alleviate my stress and ask me where I live, how my daughter sleeps and what I think of the weather we are having. Small talk rocks. Thank you.

If we all follow these very simple guidelines, we will have a peaceful and conflict-free summer full of farmer tans, soaking wet babies and suntan lotion. Bring on the warm weather.

*The “Talk to me” rule should include the following caveat: Do not tell me that I look too young to be a mother or ask me if I am the nanny. This question, which perhaps seems innocuous, causes much stress, as I then wonder if you also think I feed my children Diet Coke and Junior Mints for lunch. Which I do. But I don’t want you to know it.

Sasha Brown-Worsham is a mother and freelance writer who lives in Boston, where she writes and tries to keep her children alive and well fed.