Greetings from the naughty step, where the carpet is wearing thin.
When do I get to come down? You tell me. And perhaps you could include a few words on how I might deal with my toddler’s fears at the playground – because my cluelessness is what got me here.
Lola has always been a tentative child, not particularly adventuresome. But in the playground she seemed to confront all her misgivings about vigorous play, plunging headlong (quite literally) into the sand, the trampoline and particularly the slide.
Then suddenly one day the slide was non grata. She wouldn’t so much as look in its direction. And when she climbed to the top of the jungle gym and realised it was her only exit, she would make a vociferous campaign for removal until I could no longer bear the piteous looks from my fellow mums and lifted her down.
We don’t know how or when the slide might have affronted her, but the relationship remained icy for months. Earlier this summer, juggling a nursing baby, a pushchair and a discarded scooter, I decided on the tough love approach and left her up there. Kids came and went, sometimes entreating her to take her turn on the slide, more often pushing past her with their superior strength. After nearly an hour, I lost my nerve. I climbed up and planted her in my lap, and as she wailed in protest we slid down together.
“More!” she shouted.
Now I was feeling pleased with myself. We walked up and perched at the top. This time, however, I let go just as we were pushing off. Bad idea. As she lay prone at the bottom, I wondered if I’d helped turn her fear into a phobia.
That was last spring. When, this weekend, we encountered a genial-looking slide in a pub garden, I think we all relished the challenge. Her father took it up first. He climbed aboard and held Lola between his legs, but got so wedged at the narrowest point that she sprang free and drifted down on her own.
“Mummy do it!” So up I went. It would have been fine had she not slipped from my grasp and plunged down head first, thwacking one side of her face on the hard plastic slope. The look on her face – not to mention my husband’s, and those of the dozen or so parents who had been cheering us on – told me where to go.
Ellen Himelfarb is a freelance writer and mother of two. Email her at ellen.h@mac.com
