I wrote a piece about how much I hated taking my kids to the park (and how much I now miss it) for Motherwell Magazine. I found taking the kids to the park to be uniquely torturous. As I note in the piece: “Highlights included: having to spend 30+ minutes dressing my kid and loading up my stroller with everything we could possibly need if, say, the end of days was to arrive while we were out; hauling my adult-sized butt up child-sized playground equipment as I frantically tried to keep one of my sons from taking a flying leap to the ground; running to my diaper bag every five seconds for a boogie wipe/fruit pouch/sippy cup; furtively checking my phone for some sign of adult life outside of the playscape/hellscape I was in; and making small talk with the other dead-eyed parents who were pushing their kids on adjacent swings.”
Yet now, I now wax nostalgic for the days when my kids were too small to do anything for themselves and needed me all the time. As a parent, I’ve found that you often can’t appreciate the stages your kids are in until they’re already out of them.
