A playground in the key of life

It's a Dad's Life Adam BrophyWeekdays, we hover nervously on the fringes, furtively smoking cigarettes and disposing of butts conscientiously. Don't want a rugrat choking. We hop from foot to foot, mumbling encouragement as offspring attempt a rope-bridge or audacious flip. Occasionally we converse with each other, mostly we avoid eye contact. We're not in our natural habitat: we're the playground dads, PDs for short.

It changes at the weekends as there are a lot of us around. But during the week the playground is a different place. Even with the monsters hanging from my neck, mothers sometimes eyeball me, and not in the good way. They're wondering why this unshaven oaf isn't at work.

Most PDs are just off a job: there's shiftwork Dad, taxi-driver Dad, freelance Dad and, of course, just-about-holding-it-together Dad. He does look a little wild-eyed, but he's doing his best and his kids are delighted to have him there.

"Da, Da, look at me, I can hang off the bars with me teeth!"

"Good man, that's brilliant son, don't forget you can use your hands too."

Just-about Dad may be struggling with life, but there's fierce pride in his family's molars.

In a very obvious way, the playground can be a metaphor for life. You have the ultra-cautious kids, then the ones for whom reckless endangerment will become a way of being, others are doggedly determined, and some make everything look easy and elegant. Initially they mirror their parents' attitudes to each piece of kit, be it climbing frame, rope bridge or steep slide; if we are apprehensive, so too are they. Yet it always astounds me how they grow into themselves with familiarity and knowledge of their materials.

My younger is a bruiser through and through, but careful in the park. The elder, a fairy-dress-wearing girly girl is a whirlwind on the monkey bars.

My concern is touch, and this is not a metaphor but a reality throughout.

Kids fall in playgrounds, they get lost and cry. It has been bred into me to be careful about touching a child I don't know. So when a child tumbles in front of me, I pick him up, and when he asks for help onto a swing, I give him a hand. But I am uncomfortable and I hate that. I hate that someone may be watching with a little fear to make sure I do nothing inappropriate. I know they're watching, because I know my own heart jumps a little whenever I see someone I don't know get close to one of mine. Fear pervades, and in many ways is unavoidable. The mums will always keep a close eye on us PDs.

Of course the kids are affected. Make what you will of the following story, it happened just a couple of months ago.

I was swinging the elder on a roundabout in an inner-city playground. A little girl, about eight, joined us and was urging me to go faster and faster. When I took a break she was intrigued that the elder was in the park with just her Dad.

The questions went something like this, "where's her Ma? Do you love her Ma? D'you have other kids? D'you love your other daughter?" This kid seemed to be in the playground by herself. She told me she had got the bus in from Tallaght that morning, but she had no money left so she was either going to bunk the bus home or walk. She told me she hated her parents and she hated her life. She said she was 11, but small for her age, and that she didn't bother going to school any more.

I am standing there with a cold sweat beginning to prickle on my forehead. I bit the bullet on my fears of getting involved with unknown kids and suggested I drive her home. She looks at me with a smile and says "sure I'm only messing. There's me Auntie now, she's bringing me home in a few minutes with me other cousins."

A woman in her early twenties comes up and grabs the kid by the arm. "Where were you? Were you annoying this man?"

I assured her I hadn't been bothered and then got her to confirm she was the child's aunt. She was in a hurry to get off and had another couple of bigger kids with her. As they left, the young girl turned around and added, "and I'm not 11, I'm eight".

I was a little shaken going home that day.

abrophy@irish-times.ie