Julie Jay: The playground is like jail - none of us knows when we’re getting out

Pic: iStock

OVER the last two-and-a-half years, I have developed a contempt for playgrounds I had previously reserved for Justin Timberlake and sundried tomatoes (must they take over every dish?).

The whole point of playgrounds is that there is nothing — zero, zilch — for adults to do. To cater solely for kids is the playground’s raison d’etre — they are entirely child-centred, so most of us parents spend the time bored out of our heads, hovering around the edges, desperately willing the time to fly by.

Because we are now but 10 feet away from our nearest playground, Ted goes there on an average three to four times a day. While I can feign enthusiasm for the first visit, by the final one I am watching the bus as it departs for Tralee and thinking: ‘I could jump on that bus and start a new life somewhere and never return to this astroturf hell again.’

Dingle being the tourist destination that it is, we make friends from far and wide. So far this week, we have shared seesaws with Finnish toddlers, climbed ropes with American kids, and accepted an unusual-looking snack from an Australian family before Ted swiftly spat it out, announcing it was ‘yucky’. I offered my apologies. In my child’s defence, this snack did indeed appear frighteningly healthy.

Snacks at least provide some reprieve in these playground excursions. Ted has a natural ability to sniff out the best munchies in the playground and last week reached into a Latvian family’s buggy and helped himself to a custard pastry.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, with the same level of mortification as if I have just spilt red wine on the bride at the drinks reception.

“No, we have plenty to share,” the impossibly beautiful mother responds, and for my sanity, I choose to believe her.

Ted is so often in the playground that I am generally to be found sitting on a seesaw to rest the legs.

I was sitting on my favourite horse-shaped seesaw yesterday when a child — who couldn’t have been more than five — marched over to me and informed me that the playground equipment was “just for kids”.

“But I am a kid,” I retorted, purely because I was too tired to argue.

The same child immediately scampered over to his mother to relay the deets. I could ascertain from his hand movements that he proceeded to inform her I had just tried to pass myself off as a child.

She shot me a glance of concern and in a quick diversion attempt, I produce a pack of rice crackers. The children flock to me like pigeons to Brenda Fricker in Home Alone 2 and I avoid the woman’s suspicious gaze for the rest of our playground time.

For many parents going to the playground is like going to jail — you rarely ask how long somebody has been in for and none of us knows for sure when we’re getting out (hopefully sooner rather than later if our tiny criminals demonstrate some level of good behaviour). Still, because we are parents we hide our aversion to the playground beneath rounds of applause, squeals, and faux smiles. I clap for Ted every time he descends the slide even though this is just gravity at work.

Speaking of slides, having observed him in action, it turns out that Ted is one of those children who insists on walking up the slide. Such a personality trait means I am already preparing myself for the secondary school parent-teacher meeting where teacher after teacher tells me Ted is a lovely fella but really needs to really knuckle down now and get focussed for the mocks.

What I love about the playground is that Ted loves the playground, so I can feign enthusiasm by proxy, much like the many times in my 20s I pretended to be interested in things like comedian Joe Rogan and paintballing to win a young civil engineer’s affections. To see him so happy scampering amidst the monkey bars makes even our third playground jaunt of the day just about bearable.

Every day Ted is increasingly less than acquiescent to my pleas for mercy when it is time to go home. I try everything, even the good old ‘man from Dublin’ line when I explain the same mystery man who turns off our telly at night also comes down from Dublin regularly to lock the playground gates. However, Ted is not for turning.

Eventually, I reason with him, breaking down my logic as to why it is now time to call it a day. He gets on board with my rationale, and by that I mean I tell him if he comes home I’ll give him a biscuit.

Yes, as any former playground inmate will tell you, sometimes bribery is the only way to secure that sweet, sweet early release when all else fails.