I wish the world was a place in which every kid had his or
her own swing set, if even only for a few years during their childhood. If even
only a cheap metal swing set that soon enough attracts rust and bends and cracks
and falls inward under the heavy duress of kids happily climbing, swinging, and
hanging upside down.
My sister and I had our own swing set. Seems like everyone
else did, too. I vividly remember heading outside on summer days bright and
early at 7 a.m. while the grass was still wet on my bare feet and the plastic
seats of the swings were also covered with dew. I sat down anyway and started
to swing. I remember how peaceful those mornings were but also lonely in some
ways. The rest of the world still seemed asleep, including any would-be friends
who could fill the other swing. A swing set never seemed boring to me. It
seemed like a safe place, with its worn out dirt patches carved out of the
grass and its chain links and squeaking and dented slide and missing bolts.
It’s amazing to me how sophisticated and intricate swing
sets have become over the years. How many hundreds a person can spend building
complicated structures features multiple forts and tunnels and enough apparatus
to entertain an entire pre-school full of kids. They’re monstrosities. They’re
equivalent to houses. In fact, I’m quite sure some the stuff I’ve seen popping
up around my neighborhood is larger than what people in some Third World
countries reside in. Amazing but not surprising, I suppose.
A couple years ago when we started contemplating a swing set
purchase for our youngest daughter, I felt this weird social stigma starting to
take hold. Should I buy her a swing set that was on par with the lifelike
pirate ships and space shuttles and full-blown edifices being erected in
seemingly every other backyard surrounding my house? Or should I stick with the
simplicity of tradition A-framer made of good ole’ steel? My heart wanted to
pull the trigger on a monster-size set. My bank account screamed “No!” For whatever
reason, I couldn’t justify spending a kazillon dollars on something that she
was only going to play on for so many months a year and for only so many years of
her life. I argued she’d probably not care anyway.
Turns out that I was wrong. Not long after she learned to
walk and talk and climb and swing, she started noticing the much bigger and
much more fun-looking swing sets in the neighbors’ yards. And then her
questions started to come. “Why don’t we have one of those?” I was tempted to
tell her “because you were born with a great big imagination and ability to
make your own fun without having to have a three-story building in your backyard
to do it,” but I didn’t. I just mumbled something about money, groceries, a
roof over your head, and other stuff she didn’t give a flip about and changed
the subject.
Still, not having the best in outdoor play gear hasn’t
stopped her for a second from playing on the mid-level gear that her old man
bought instead. She still swings with a smile. She still zooms down a slide.
She still climbs on the bars, and soon enough, I’m sure she’ll be hanging
upside down risking broken bones. And damned if she doesn’t play on her far less
expensive swing set a hell of a lot more than the kids next door with their
fancy castles and split-level, ranch-sized hideouts. I’ve no clue what those
kids do all day and night all year round, but I rarely see those kids outside
getting dirty, getting physical, and getting sweaty. They must be inside
playing with their overpriced, fancy indoor toys.
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