Why I Hate The Playground

I don’t usually take my kids to the playground. You see, there are three of them, and going out is hard. They play with each other most of the time, and it works out just fine. I’m serious.

Since the weather’s been so beautiful, though, I decided to take them to the park for the afternoon.

When we arrived, the kids took off straight for the smallest play structure. There weren’t many people there, so I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. I followed the babies around, making sure no one split her lip or fell off an unguarded edge. I was having a perfectly good time until my daughter tried to enter the larger play structure, where a solid-looking two-year-old decided to assert himself.

“You get down right now! Don’t come up here! This is mine!”

My daughter, not having really ever been sassed by a strange child before, looked at me quizzically. I tried to defuse the confrontation by redirecting her to the swing, but she chose to fold her arms and sit where she stood.

The tiny tsar stamped his feet and wrinkled his baby brow.

“No! You get down right now! Mine!”

I wanted to push the little shit off the platform, but realizing that was not an option, I continued to redirect my daughter.

“Come on, Maggie,” I urged, “I’ll push you on the swing.” I started walking and, thankfully, she followed.

My sons, in the moments hence, had found their way to a sandbox filled with plastic toys I’m certain grubby little plague-ridden children had been licking nonstop for the past four hours. I headed over to them, when a blonde, sickly-looking toddler ambled inside as well. Michael was gracious, sharing his toys. They seemed to be playing well together, so I glanced around to find Maggie.

I turned back just in time to watch the blonde sneeze directly into Michael’s face. I let out what I believe was a moan loud enough for the kid’s mother to hear.

I wanted to point at her and shout, “Why would you bring your kid here if he’s sick, crazy lady?!? What in the flerk are you thinking!?!” But I didn’t.

The woman gathered her snotty wards and (much too slowly) left the playground.

On my way over to the larger play structure, I caught the gauze pad of a used Band-Aid out of the corner of my eye, lying in the sand. I shuddered and continued on my way.

I studied the parents as well, watching them ‘supervise’ their children (i.e. play with their phones) until another parent happened within earshot, at which time they became the most attentive parents EVER. This proved my hypothesis that there’s nothing quite as motivating as positive social pressure.

My kids were yukking it up, going down the big slide, climbing up the rock wall, then going down the big slide again, when a fleece-and-spandex coated couple approached with twins. Twins, I thought to myself, this might be nice. Except one of them had either just eaten a harbor seal or had croup.

“One more time down the slide, then it’s time to go! Let’s go! Let’s go! Time to go! Come on!” I cried frantically.

I guided them each down the slide, and then grabbed Michael football-style and pressed towards the exit. My parents rounded up the others.

I put my head down and continued on, containing the flailing, screaming, and kicks. I was nearly out. Except I’d just noticed an unwrapped condom on the ground.

I let out another involuntary moan and moved even more quickly, my son flapping like a salmon at my side.

“Turn around!” he screamed, red-faced and dripping tears. “Go back that way!” I explained quickly and quietly that it was time to leave.

“NOOOOOOOO!!!!” he shrieked.

That’s when I bribed him with Munchkins.

On our way by another family, a woman with a thick Russian accent and faded black jeggings offered, “Oh, you see, that’s the problem with the little ones. They come and they want to stay all day long!”

I managed a slight chuckle, and continued to deliver my crying, kicking timebomb to the van.

When we arrived, I was sweaty and covered in dust, and he was out of breath from crying. I made good on my bribe and waited for the others.

And then we left.

And I can confidently say I won’t be back soon.

This, my friends, is why I hate the f-ing playground.

Stephanie spends most of her days “guiding and nurturing” a precocious three-year-old boy and two-year-old fraternal twins. She blogs about humor, parenting, pop culture, and being a woman at Momma Be Thy Name. In her spare time (HA!), she writes greeting cards for American Greetings and is working on her first novel. Follow her on Facebook or on Twitter.