When I was a kid growing up on the Long Island/Queens border, I loved recess. I loved games — the rowdier, the better. Dodgeball? Darwinian as hell, but sure. Kickball? Only if I got to pick teams first. But it was always good fun, even when there were tears, fights or the occasional scraped knee.
When my husband and I moved with our two sons from the city to Port Washington, a suburb on the North Shore of Long Island, I knew they’d have a kinder, gentler childhood than I did. More space. Green lawns. Good schools.
I just didn’t think everything was going to be quite so . . . wimpy.
This past week, the middle school in our district instituted a ban on all things fun on the playground. Everything good, they’ve nixed.
They took away balls, and they’ve banned the game of tag. Feel like doing a cartwheel? Forget about it. Verboten.
The school district claims the restrictions are due to a lack of space because of construction, and they promised the balls ban is only temporary. I sure hope it is.
Here’s the thing: You don’t need that much space to play tag. I’d be happy to volunteer my services as a playground games consultant, because I can show you how it’s done.
I used to play tag in a tiny schoolyard at recess. A few times, kids didn’t let me play with them and my feelings were hurt. I also fell on occasion while playing, but I was OK, and my parents didn’t take me to the ER.
There used to be see-saws on the playground, but they were removed a long time ago because someone said kids might get vertigo. Perish the thought!
As a kid, I never got vertigo, but I did smash a finger once in a see-saw when I was about 7 years old and guess what? My parents didn’t blame the school. They didn’t even take me to a hospital. Nope, they put ice on it when I got home, and everything was fine.
I also dabbled in the art of unsupervised cartwheeling. It didn’t work very well; I kicked myself in the face. Ouch! I was embarrassed and hurt, but somehow the world continued.
As a parent, there are many things you worry about, constantly, from the minute they’re handed to you in the hospital, swaddled in a pink-and-blue striped blanket.
Plastic balls were not included in my list of fears.
I’ve been hit with a ball plenty of times in my life, and I figure my kids will probably, at some point, be hit too. They’ll learn that it hurts but that they’ll be fine — and they’ll learn to get up.
I’m not sure why or how the parents of my generation got it into their heads that these types of lessons were best avoided.
I’ve heard moms confess that they sometimes spy on their kids while they’re at recess, just to make sure they’re doing the right thing and not getting hurt. Look, your kids may or may not be doing the right thing, but you’ve got to let it go.
I’ve been thinking about safety a lot these days because I often get looks when I’m out with my kids. Recently, we were at the park and my 3¹/₂-year-old started climbing a tree. Other parents looked at me, horrified, like they were going to report me to the Department of Social Services. Didn’t these parents climb trees as kids?
I recently arrived on a playdate and there was an old metal dome structure in the mom’s yard instead of the perfectly constructed wooden play thing everyone seems to have these days. I knew right then and there that this was a fun mom, a mom who let her kids climb upside down, jump and explore. I felt free; my kids were going to have fun that day, and I could breathe. I complimented her on her dangerous play structure and we got to know each other a little better.
I’m worried about my children, but I’m not worried that every unsupervised cartwheel will turn into a broken arm. I’m worried that by living in a society that has started to put safety first to a ridiculous degree, they’ll think falling is the end of the world. That there is no coming back from disappointment, from hurt, or from getting hit with a ball.
The thing is, kids are resilient; we’re the ones that break to pieces at the sound of their tears.
Catherine Saxida is the parent of two boys, 3 and 5, in Port Washington