Denver
Every afternoon, I load up my boys and head to our neighborhood playground.
At first, our 4 p.m. strolls to Denver’s Cheesman Park promised a way to ease my newborn’s fussy time and wear down my 2-year-old before dinner. What I didn’t expect was that somewhere between the seesaw and safety swings I’d find the strongest sense of community I’ve known in Denver.
Like most playgrounds, ours has its regulars. There’s Antonio, who hauls his grandson Pablo in a red wagon stocked with toy golf clubs and Cheerios. Sarah teaches her Liam his colors with leaves fallen from the tall trees. Ian and Pete take turns reading Dr. Spock and keeping their Zoe from pulling down her Pull-Ups.
We are at once watchful over our kids, yet careful not to crowd them. So, between the “Look Ma’s” and bloody noses, we’ve come to know one another with surprising eagerness and intimacy.
We share stories about childbirth and plane rides home from China with scared little strangers who have become our daughters. We commiserate about partners who work too much. We discuss quality vs. quantity time, the questionable nutritional value of baby carrots and the ethics of whether to feed the squirrels.
We rookies look to the veterans for advice. They smile at our babies and warn us how quickly they’ll grow.
One mom, Andrea, even asks to hold my youngest so she can smell his earthy scalp and remember.
Her 6-year-old Luke has spent hours with my toddler launching Hot Wheels up the spiral slide. He has taught him to say “powwww” and “crasssshhhh” – the heady language of little boys.
On the playground, there are no membership rules. No board of directors, nor monthly dues. We are just people using our city, committed to raising our families in a place that’s diverse and strong. We’re serious about our kids. And we are, all of us, lucky to have this time with them.
By 6 o’clock, the air has chilled and our little ones get distracted by the news copters buzzing overhead. “Five minutes, Elijah,” calls one dad. “Two minutes, Jack,” says another. “OK, Kate,” nanny Krista calls out, “It’s time for dinner.”
We bundle our kids in their strollers and wagons and promise to pick up our conversations next time. And then we head home down leafy, darkening sidewalks, grateful to have had one another’s company.
Now that daylight-saving time is ending, we’ll have an hour less together in the autumn sun. Whoever came up with that idea must not have known afternoons on the playground.
Susan Greene, a Denver Post political reporter, is on a leave of absence from the newspaper.
