Any family who spends as much time on playgrounds as we do is bound to have a collection of stories.
Kids from all walks of life and all types of homes gather in concentrated numbers and encourage each other to lose their minds.
That kid who screamed so loudly, and so often, that you just had to leave. (How did her parents not address that?)
The kid who brought his pet iguana (or was it a Komodo dragon?) and hid out in the tunnel between the slides. (I wonder which family eventually called the police that day…)
That time I lost sight of Ainsley for a minute and finally spotted her – in the arms of a 10-year-old who was helping her to the top of a slide she had NO BUSINESS on. (I may or may not have used some not-very-playground-appropriate language)
Your first couple of playground stories are a big deal. You tell your spouse and keep them in your pocket for those conversations with other parents. But eventually, it’s just part of your new life with small, insane people.
Of course there’s a kid peeing in the corner of the sandbox. He’s 3. Makes sense.
This week we had a playground encounter that was exceptionally classic…
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