Seeking Foster Homes for Wayward Bacteria

Thoughts on the mall playground

I spent a few minutes supervising the twins at the mall playground recently. They had a great time running and climbing and sliding and blowing off steam, although at one point Ace complained that Ione was following him and a little bit later Ione complained that Ace was following her. I said I’d prefer it if they followed each other because some of these kids might be bullies or sociopaths or Ukrainian adults posing as grade-school orphans. You never know.

Honestly, I take a much more hands-off approach to supervising than I used to. I let them play but caution them to remember that there are bigger kids who might not see them and smaller kids they might not see. There are four types of parents and grandparents at the mall playground: (1) helicopters who tromp about the play area like Godzilla, inches behind their offspring, (2) super-helicopters equipped with verbal missiles to shoot down anyone who violates the five-foot buffer around their kids, (3) swivel-head scanners ever on the lookout for other adults with nefarious intent, and (4) moms and dads playing games on their phone and who aren’t always sure where their kids are but assume they’re okay.* I think the last group is probably the most grounded in reality but I guess you can’t be too careful.

Where were you?!

Over there.

Why were you completely hidden behind the foam rubber rhinoceros?!

Uh, we were having fun.

I don’t see what’s fun about hiding behind a foam rubber rhinoceros and giving me a heart attack!

It’s hard to relax at the mall playground, even if you remain vigilant about who’s behind the foam rubber rhinoceroseses.

There are four types of kids at the mall playground: (1) toddlers who have no idea why they’re there, (2) take-charge types who want to organize the whole chaotic mess into a big game of tag or hide-and-seek, (3) awkward-agers killing time before going off to their part-time jobs, and (4) your perfect angels. The first type is always falling backwards on their diaper-cushioned butts. The second type is on a soapbox by the pirate ship: “No, you guys are the bad guys and you come up and try to commandeer the ship. Also, there’s a meteor approaching.” The third type cuts notches in their belts, one for each toddler they’ve run over. The fourth type is just trying to have fun without all these people getting in the way.

I don’t know if any lasting friendships are formed at the mall playground unless you count those formed by microbes who agree to combine the worst aspects of their respective diseases into a whole new malady. The daycare facility at the lab in Stephen King’s The Stand didn’t contain as many germs as the typical mall playground. There’s surely a hand-sanitizing station at the entrance but a prison-style disinfecting shower might be more appropriate.

I assume hazmat suits in a variety of kid sizes would be cost-prohibitive.

Leaving the mall playground can be traumatic. Lots of tantrums. Lots of explanations: “This really is my kid.” The mall has rather sneakily stationed a simulated rollercoaster machine near the playground so parents can use it as a bribe, and you have to get right up next to it to find out it costs fifteen clams—well played, mall, well played. Ace noticed the rollercoaster before I did, so the twins didn’t have to be persuaded to take a break from their playing and frolicking and providing foster homes to wayward bacteria.

We had escaped. And when we were done with the rollercoaster and heading for the exit, I took one last look at the mall playground: parents on full alert, parents deep in their phones, and kids jumping all over the foam rubber rhinoceros hoping the evening could go on forever.

* I’m in group 3.5.