AUTHOR: Sheri Lynch TITLE: Playground DATE: 11/09/2003 04:06:00 PM ----- BODY:

At the playground, the children swarm from swings to slide to sand pit, the sound of their laughter and chatter echoing across the late afternoon dusk. They remind me of a flock of birds, rising suddenly from one tree in a cloud of beating wings, only to descend immediately into a neighboring set of branches. Their voices are like birds too: some making sharp cries, others more musical, all blending together into a song without words. There is a purity to their actions, but the beginnings of a pecking order as well. The little girl with the braids seems to be in charge of the sand toys, and the boy circling the climbing bars clearly wants to be left alone. Their parents are mostly clustered under the gazebo, talking. They are surrounded by the rolling parade of litter that accompanies every child below the age of six: juice boxes, graham crackers, diaper bags, sweatshirts, and Happy Meal toys. Every now and again a mother -- sometimes, though less commonly, a father -- will rush into the fray, shouting, "Parker/Dylan/Brianna/Madison! You stop that/come here/put that down/give that back this instant!" All of these parents are strangers to me, a mommy who works odd hours and doesn't belong to a playgroup. So I sit on a bench, or sometimes the ground, and hold Caramia, and watch. Two little boys are using sticks to rake leaves into a big pile. The boys are very focused on the task, and have firm ideas on how best to go about it. Olivia wants to help. The older boy, who might be all of five, gives Olivia a long stick and pushes her in the direction of the leaf pile. The smaller boy, who looks about four, is clearly management. "You have to do it this way. No, this way!" he insists, taking Olivia's stick and scraping it through the dirt. She complies for perhaps ten seconds, then drops her stick to follow a squirrel. "Come back girl!" he calls, but to no avail. Raking leaves can't compete with the possibility of finally capturing and holding a squirrel, one of Olivia's dearest ambitions. "Where are you, Miss Suzy?" she calls, weaving among the trees and squinting at their topmost branches. Miss Suzy is a character in one of Olivia's favorite books. She's a matronly little squirrel who spends her days tidying her tree house and baking acorn cakes. There's no convincing Olivia that she isn't real -- and I wouldn't try. Let her believe that Miss Suzy lives in the forest, that bears and children can be friends, and that the crabs on the beach want nothing more than to talk to her about the ocean. Let her think that all fish are Nemo, and that dinosaurs exist, and that she might someday sprout wings and fly like a bird. Why not? With the world waiting to steamroller her imagination, she doesn't need me endlessly explaining things, or correcting her, or giving her more tiresome facts than she can possibly comprehend. Instead, I like to listen to her talk. One day she confessed that the night before, in her dream, she'd held the moon in her hands until it dropped and was broken. "That can happen." I responded. Olivia nodded, her face serious. "Yes. I will be careful." I am careful too, at the playground. Careful not to interfere while she negotiates the use of a Tonka truck with its towheaded, pugnacious three year-old owner. Careful not to gasp or wring my hands while she clambers up the steep ladder to the tallest slide. I don't want to fight her battles, or infect her with my fears and phobias. If she doesn't mind that boy pouring sand on her head, then neither should I. When she's had enough of being shoved at the pretend steering wheel, she'll either shove back or move on to something different. If she wants to swing she will, and if not, she won't - and it's entirely her decision. I want her to be brave, to explore and climb, even if that means sometimes falling down. Or leaving my side. Because when she reaches the top and stretches out her arms and shouts, "I am in the sky like a bird! I am up very high with the moon!", I believe her. For a moment it seems as though she really might fly. And that makes my heart ring, like a bell.

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