In 1996, when I was in the 7th grade, my little home town built a new playground next to the library. Last week, we took our kids to this spot to play. On the way, I told our oldest about how I had helped build the playground when I was younger. (Our class took a field trip across the street to help nail some balusters along the outside rail.) As he played with his newest friend, a girl who let him chase her around the park, I heard him tell her, "My mom grew up here, and she built this place." His gross exaggeration made me laugh, but mostly it left me thinking about all of growing-up that I done in this space.
I remember youth group trips to play "sardines." I remember meeting friends to chat on the swings. I remember holding hands with boys. I remember July 4 celebrations filled with hotdogs and fireworks. And I remember the night my parents came to retrieve me and my brother - in their pajamas - when they disapproved of us being there so late. I watched my oldest run through the towers and helped my little one through the maze of steps and slides. As I explored the park again, I felt a bit sad about the state of the park that had witnessed so many of my important moments. The mulch, once black and thick, had been kicked away, and only a dirty layer of sand remained. Many of the balusters were gone, creating shortcuts in the maze. The steering wheel of the wooden train was lost, and the many of the medal chimes that used to ring loudly had been removed, leaving a sparse and unsatisfying chord. At one point, I found myself on the outside of the play area; my family was all inside. I thought that instead of walking around to the entrance in the front, I could just hop the railing. Well, I decided to walk around to the front, after all. In that moment, I noticed that the park wasn't the only think that had aged. I had some wear and tear of my own. A few grey hairs have popped up on my head in the past few years, and a few pounds have gathered around my middle. My skin holds stretch marks and wrinkles now. But you know what, my kids didn't care one bit that the park had some wear. They jumped, crawled, climbed, dug, slid, and ran just like I did twenty years ago. They just wanted to play. That old park held their little bodies proudly. I wish I had that strength, too. When my little ones ask me to play, rolling in the floor with trains or legos, I often feel to old, tired, or run-down to do it. But they don't care that I'm old, they just want my time. It's the least I can do to give them a bit more. I want them to look back and remember their mom the way I remember the park - a place that holds them while they play and grow. A safe place to hide. Still fun, despite being old and worn.
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Diana CurtisWife, mom, stepmom, writing instructor, handbell ringer, choir singer, calligrapher, and expert napper. Archives
December 2017
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