Playground Lessons

The world is bananas

I know. There was an election. And, it was important. Really important. But, Anisa and I rocked out to Smells Like Teen Spirit the other day. Which, let’s be honest, is way more fun to think about. So, let’s do a quick around the horn as the turkey brines, the ribs braise and the paellas wait to be cooked on this Thanksgiving-eve.

Baby Girl explaining to her new friend the details of sandcastle construction.

First of all, sending some love to my people in the immigration movement. After nearly 20 years as a part of the work, I am now on the outside. But, more than ever, I am inspired by the leaders across the country working to welcome - and protect - immigrants and refugees to our communities.

I think we can all agree, earaches are the worst.

Once Anisa broke through her (brutal) three months of colic, she became the happiest little person. The smiles, the giggles, the energy. Listening to her downstairs reciting her ABC’s when she should be napping. It is all fantastic.

Until the earache showed up two weeks ago. She was cranky at all of us, all of the time. Barely ate any food. Woke up multiple times a night. Luckily, we caught the ear ache early enough. But, still it was no fun.

A runny nose, a fever, an upset stomach, you know how to identify and deal with. The signs are pretty obvious (and gross). No emotional regulation necessary. But, an earache? Can’t really tell when one hits. And nearly impossible for a two-year-old to describe (especially one who already like to fiddle with her earrings). Just an unfair sickness.

But, Baby Girl has her mojo back so let’s talk about playgrounds.

See, I grew up eating ice cream at the local Thrifty’s ($0.20 per cylindrical scoop), clambering across playground structures that were equal parts pressure-treated wood and rusty nails. In fact, once, when a plank of said wood went missing, I plunged through the gap, emerging with an impressive gash courtesy of that rusty nail.

Setting aside the low grade tetanus and pressure-treated carcinogens coursing through my body, the playgrounds of my youth were fantastic. A bit of danger sharpened the senses, coarse sand barely covering an unforgiving ground, the jangle of exposed chain links. It is weird how much I remember those playgrounds of my youth.

Decades later, there is once again a lot of playground time in my life. And it is a blast for reasons I didn’t expect.

Of course, the lack of sharp angles, rusty nails and pressure-treated wood is disappointing. The rubberized ground cover, the sheathed chain links, the bright colors are a reason why we can’t escape reality television stars. I guess Anisa won’t miss what she doesn’t know.

Yet, the life lessons of the playground have never been more important.

Some days, Anisa walks around like the mayor. Saying “Hi” to everyone, befriending the older kids, climbing with abandon, yelling, “Daddy! Daddy! Come heeeere!” The best part is when she cheers on the quiet, hesitant, ones. Clapping her hands, yelling “Yay!” when they make it up or down the structure. Pointing out where to step, showing them where to sit. Doling out hugs to her new friends. More evidence that Mom’s DNA are doing a lot of work.

Other days, Baby Girl is all business. Furrowed brow, marching up and down the steps, deadly serious on the slide. Throwing side-eye as she waits for the kids ahead of her. On these days, she isn’t cheering anyone on. She is keeping to herself. All of which is fine. Dad’s DNA has to come through at some point.

But whichever version of Anisa shows up, I draw the same lesson: Be nice, be adventurous and be thankful. Of course, Baby Girl may say “you’re welcome” when she should be saying “thank you,” but she is (usually) nice to everyone on the playground and loves climbing the structures that are a little too big for her.

All I can hope is that these are the characteristics she hones on the playground and carries through her life. Because on the eve of this Thanksgiving, I am fully aware I live a fortunate life. Surrounded by incredible friends and family, lucky to have a job I thoroughly enjoy, deeply grateful for all of the above.

Which feels really important, because the world is bananas.

Shah Alam - an immigrant from Bangladesh - sold a banana for 35 cents outside Sotheby’s in New York City.

Sotheby’s sold the banana, duct-taped to a wall, for $6.2 million to Justin Sun, a crypto entrepreneur.

Alam pays $500 a month in rent. He works 12 hours a day at the fruit stand, four days a week. For $12 an hour.

Sun recently invested $30 million in Donald Trump’s crypto project.

“Those who bought [the art], what kind of people are they?,” Alam asked. “Do they not know what a banana is?”