The weather has been gorgeous here in New Town, so Little Man and I have been spending a lot of time at local playgrounds. I throw a water bottle and snack in my purse, along with sunscreen and some bandaids and we're good to go (I never realized the mothers of young boys physically can not leave the house without bandaids). I bring my Kindle with us and when we get to the park I settle in on a shady bench for a nice long read.
When I look up to make sure LM isn't having some kind of jungle gym-related crisis, I see a mom trying to push a toddler on a swing while simultaneously joggle the infant in her Baby Bjorn and she seems to be giving me the stink eye. Little Man is nicely playing with another kid, and there hasn't been any screaming, so I know my kid hasn't done anything to her kid. Then I realize I am sitting and reading, childless and undisturbed, in a skirt and flats, apparently having showered recently. I remember being on the delivering end of that look all too well.
Nine long years ago, I recall being the mother of one toddler and entering what appeared to be the Thunderdome - or at least that's what the playground seemed to me at the time. It was teaming with screaming, six year-old hellions, running across the wobbly bridge, scattering pre-schoolers in their wake, and it featured a toddler-crushing gauntlet composed of multiple playground swings. These were the days when I myself had to climb Mt. Playmobile and hope I wouldn't humiliate myself getting my baby-weight-bearing hips lodged at the top of the slide after the incline proved too terrifying for my wee one to conquer alone. My arms still ache from the memory of supporting a toddler's full body weight so she could make it across the monkey bars "all by herself" while I dodged swinging feet inches from my face.
Then I had another kid and the playground became even more fun as I enjoyed speed-nursing on a bench while hoping my older one wouldn't run a kamikaze mission in front of the swings while I was occupied (why do they DO that?) And I loved trying to stop an infant from trying to eat handful after handful of wood chips when she wouldn't stay on the blanket I had futily plopped her on at the edge of the play area to prevent her from being trampled. The only break I got was when the little one was on the swings because one of my offspring was imprisoned and it allowed me a few minutes to stand completely upright.
I too used to look at "those" mothers on the benches with a mixture of disdain and jealousy. Disdain because I didn't think they were working as hard as I was and jealousy because, well, they were sitting down during daylight hours and they weren't even on a toilet. What I didn't know back then was "those" mothers, among whose lucky ranks I now count myself, had earned that spot on the bench with blood, sweat and slide rash. They had been through the siege and had earned some R&R in the form of a rapidly-cooling takeout cup of coffee and a chapter of the new David Sedaris.
So to you mothers coming up behind me and just entering "the yard", spare me your derision. I have done my time. I have also taught my kids the basics - Wait your turn. Don't climb up the slide the wrong way. Stay off those boingy, ride-on animals meant for toddlers and don't rock the bouncy bridge when little kids are present. Generally, don't be a playground dick. - Because of this hard work, I don't need to hover around them anymore.
Let's make a deal. You scramble after your kids, and I will scream at mine, "WATCH OUT FOR THE BABIES!", every three pages.
Don't worry, sister. You'll be sitting next to me soon enough.
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