Swami Liebowitz Hits the Playground

I have been humbled.  And I’ve survived.  It was 10:30am and Ax and I were meeting up with my prenatal yoga mama friend Etheria and her two boys Thelonius and Jacques at the downtown playground.

Ax and I arrived first and he took off, with permission, for the enormous climbing structure.  I followed, losing sight of him almost immediately.  The place was packed.

As I entered the gate to the playground area I couldn’t help but notice a little dumpling of a girl, maybe 20 months old, standing at the gate wailing.  

She had on pink leggings, a pink faux fur fuzzy jacket, and a pale pink knit hat with little knit pom pom ears on it.  She had diaper butt and carried a small plastic purse  with a fake pearl handle dangling over her wrist.

And she was wailing, standing at the gate to the park, all dressed up, with several adults, but no obvious parent around.  Wailing.

My heart wept.  I looked at her.  “What’s going on, Honey?” I said in my kindest, least threatening voice, staying well outside of her personal arms-length safety zone.

“Mama!” she cried.

“Ahh, you want your mama.  Let’s find your mama, or your dada.”  

“Mama!” she cried.

I looked around.  About four feet away was a glassy-eyed dad type sitting on a picnic table.  He was in his early thirties, dressed in a baseball cap, soccer shorts, and a college sweatshirt.  He had on clean sneakers, an I-watch, and a fresh short haircut beneath the cap.  He sat with a baby carrier beside him with a sleeping baby in it.  He was watching me and the little girl, expressionless.  

I made eye contact, and pointed at the wailing pink dumpling. “Is she yours?” I asked.  

He nodded, barely.  The girl was still bawling.  

I thought for a moment.  I considered calling child services.  I asked him, “Are you doing some kind of cry it out thing?”

“No.”

“Oh.  Is it okay if I talk to her?”

“Why? Are you going to kidnap her?”

“No.  I thought she could use some consoling.”  Me, pleasant.  Kid, still crying.  

Me: “Do you want me to bring her to you so you can console her?”

Dad: “She’s just doing her thing.”

Me: “Can I console her?”

Him: “Can you?”

Me: “I mean may I?”

Him: “Have at it.”

So I crouched down to Pink Dumpling’s eye level and asked her what was up.  She said, “Mama!”

I said, “You want your mama.”

“Ya.” She sniveled.

“What’s in your purse?” I asked.  “It’s so pretty.”

And she hid her purse behind her back.  But she stopped crying.

“Is that your baby?” I asked pointing to the carrier on the picnic table.

“Ya,” she said.

“You’re a big sister!” I said.  “I’m a big sister.  That’s very cool.”  

And I kind of walked her the few steps toward her dad who then said to her, “Do you want to see if the swings are open now?”

“Ya!” She said.  

And they walked off, him with the carrier on one arm and holding Pink Dumpling’s hand in the other.  As they left, she looked back at me and made deep eye contact.  I held her gaze, smiled at her, a smile that I thought she could tell meant something like, “You can get through this you lovely little dumpling.  And I’m sorry, he’s doing the best he can.” 

I felt for him, I really did.  But I was also mad.  How could someone just let their not-even-two-year-old cry like that?  

And then Etheria came, and I told her the whole story and we noticed that Pink Dumpling’s mom had come, but that she and dad weren’t keeping a visual on their girl at all, and how they were really not as good parents as we were at all and what were they thinking?  And how could that mom with the newborn have a blow-out and fresh-looking Botox and a shiny leggings outfit but not keep an eye on her kid?  Not to be a sister hater, but like, come on.

And then our fabulously independent yet responsible and sensitive grass-fed children came running up to us claiming extreme hunger and we whipped out our seaweed snacks, slightly salted boiled red potatoes, and stainless steel water bottles from which they happily slurped.  And then they were off again.  

We gave our kids the five minute warning and continued to spy on the Pink Dumpling family, assessing them as grievously suboptimal.

Etheria said, “It makes me so sad to see that.”

I said, “I know.  I mean, it’s not easy to always keep my cool but it is so worth it.  My kid feels totally safe.  I work at it though — I need to load up on self-care to be able to do that and I get that some people don’t get to do that.  I’m so lucky.  I’m so grateful.”

And then we called for the boys who were all amped up from running and climbing and being eight-year-old boys, and they came stampeding up to us.

We exited as a herd.  Me, carrying the snacks, balancing a soccer ball in the crook of my arm, and holding a water bottle in one hand.  I had a bunch of coats in the other arm.  As we were walking out, our happy pack, Ax came running up from behind me and smacked the ball out of my arm, causing the ball, the snacks, and the steel water bottle to fly out of my arms with one well-landed bop.  It hurt. 

Without thinking, I gave him a solid backhand to the gut.   I was stunned.  I’ve never raised a hand to my child, and here, right on the heels of parenting pride, an obvious fail.  

Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice or care what had happened, as he was skipping along ahead with his friends.  I suppose my backhand hadn’t had as much force as I’d felt.  But still.

I called Ax back to process the situation, to make our mutual apologies, to reconnect.  

Then he was off again.  Etheria and I burst into laughter.  I am mortal.  We are all doing the best we can.  Some days are better than others.  I’m gonna keep going.