playground

What if the playground isn’t just where kids burn energy — but where they quietly discover who they are?

In this episode of Notes, Kathy reflects on a familiar playground moment that suddenly revealed something unexpected about her daughter — and about herself. From the metal latch on the gate to the imaginary worlds kids build together in minutes, this is a meditation on play, visibility, and what happens when children are given a space that isn’t built for adults.

Playgrounds are kids’ turf — their language, their social world. They’re one of the few places where kids aren’t performing, correcting, or trying to get it right. They’re just being. And in watching that, something shifts.

This episode is about noticing. About stepping back. And about leaving the playground — snacks packed, sunset fading — knowing your child a little better than you did before.

hosted by Kathy Patalsky

healthyhappylife.com

IG: KathyPatalsky + notes.kathy

Transcript

playground

Within seconds, she was chasing the car, talking to the boy, saying some random facts to him about her monster truck."

 You are listening to Notes with Kathy Patalsky.

Today I'm gonna talk about how a simple playground can help you see your child in ways that you never expected it.

Playground

last night, we walked the stone path that curves around the baseball field, green grass all around us past the bathrooms, the parking lot towards the little gate with the metal latch that all the toddlers love to pull back and forth. That latch is always the first thing. You pull it open and you enter the playground, leaving the real world behind you.

There's a plaque at Disneyland when you enter. It says, "here, you leave today and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow. And fantasy." And that's kind of what it feels like when you enter a simple playground, a whole new world that's made for kids.

As an adult. The second I walk through those gates, something happens. My shoulders drop. I let out a sigh. My whole body relaxes. Because inside the playground, this is a space where my kid can be a kid. Outside the gates, there are rules, boundaries, watchful adult eyes, social judgment. Inside the playground. It's different. It's play.

It's all learning. Trying. Failing. Learning from your mistakes. Building, creating, imagining, and yes, there are still rules. No hitting, no kicking, no flinging yourself off the highest platform. But they are are rules a kid can understand. What actually happens is that kids make the real rules.

They run out onto a springy black squishy ground, or peel their shoes off to dive toe first into dirty sand. They tiptoe across dead leaves and twigs to climb ladders that lead to entire worlds.

Structures made of metal and wood, or faded plastic. There's monkey bars to swing across platforms to traverse, like a pirate ship, climbing higher and higher to look out over an imaginary sea.

Some have themes. Beach theme. Pirate ship theme, but kids don't need that. 

A playground isn't just a structure, it's metal and plastic and rope, but it can be anything to these kids. A castle, a ship, an airplane, a superhero city. The beauty of it is that it's entirely up to the child's imagination to decide. And if there's one thing we know about kids, their imaginations don't hesitate.

This is their space.

So I find a spot, I drop my bag, pull out her water bottle. Double check that I've got snacks. And I watch. I watch childhood unfold. I watch my kid be herself. And even though you're on alert the entire time, there's a kind of relaxation at a playground that parents don't experience anywhere else.

If you're really lucky, you have a mom friend with you who you can sit and actually talk to while your kids play. You guys. I kid you not. Some of my happiest memories from preschool days were when I went to a park or a playground with a friend or friends, and our kids just played, while we talked.

It probably would've been better if we had like iced coffees and snacks, but that never really seemed to work out. The kids always had snacks, but not really us.

So last night we went to a playground and at first it felt a little flat because, we went alone. Just us, me and her, and a bunch of random kids we didn't know.

She ran around for a bit, climbed, wandered. I pushed her on the swing.  Even though she fully knows how to pump her legs herself.

Then we wandered over to the grass about ready to leave. Well, guess we'll go home. .But then she noticed a little boy, older than her, playing with a remote control car.

One of those really fast ones that zooms across the grass. And I thought, oh, that's cute. She'll watch it for a second and then we'll go home.

She didn't just watch. She jumped in. 

Within seconds, she was chasing the car, talking to the boy, saying some random facts to him about her monster truck. 

Helping him retrieve it when it got stuck running after the balls, he was showing her how it pushed along.

They were making up rules and talking tools and speeds. Within minutes, they had their own little language, their own little game around this car. They built an imaginary world of what it was doing, what its plan was and where they'd put it next.

This isn't the first time that this has happened, and I'm pretty sure that any parent has a story just like this. It happens a lot. And every time I'm amazed by kids' ability to make friends anywhere they go.  It actually makes me sad when I think about adults, because we're so bad at that.

Kids are open, even when they're not warm. They're curious. They're checking you out. They're testing your energy.

Kids never skip people. They notice everyone. Sad people, loud people, quiet people, happy. They don't erase anyone, and then they connect.

I think I expect to see a complete mirror of me on the playground, some version of me running around enjoying childhood.

I don't see a mirror. I see a pair of glasses. I suddenly see her so clearly in a way that I don't normally get to. Because this playground wasn't built for me.

Playgrounds are kids turf, kids language, their social world.

This is her fluent place. They choose what to play, who to talk to. They join teams and make imaginary pizzas and then sell them to their friends or their parents. They place  sand on little sticks, dead leaves, and make imaginary money.

They have entire worlds.

A playground is a tiny ecosystem. Babies, toddlers, big kids, parents, nannies, sand, swings, monkey bars, scooters and bikes, fruit cart, bathrooms, a pond with ducks. There's a gate that opens and closes. The dusty ground that coats your shoes, the springy pavement, makes everything feel soft and safe.

Some playgrounds are bright and colorful, and some are faded and woody and rusted and old.

  The thing is, I never understood until I watched my kid play on a playground just how important these spaces are. It's not just a place where kids get their energy out. The playground is one of those spaces where kids get to discover who they are without performing for anyone. They're not being graded, they're not trying to get it right.

They're not being shaped in real time. They're just being. They're joining games, making rules, finding their voice, testing what feels like them.

Then they walk back out into the real world, a world full of structure and expectations, and adults, already knowing something about themselves. They know they're capable of existing in a world they helped create, alongside their peers, and that matters.

So I'll bring the snacks, the juice box, the extra sweater. I'll stay a little longer than I planned to every time. Until the sun shifts behind the palm trees, until the clouds explode into oranges and pinks and purples. Until it's time to head back to the real world. Headlights on the 4 0 5, stop signs, commuter traffic, and still, I let her play. Because I've seen who she is here. She leaves exactly as herself.

And I leave knowing her a little better.

  
This was Notes by Kathy Patalsky

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