Washington Park, Denver Colorado. As we approach the playground I can hear Mia giggling with excitement. She begins standing up in the blue collapsable wagon I'm pulling her in. "Mia, sit down please" I ask. She sits down. Before I can bring her to a complete stop, she is already climbing out. I find a spot of grass just short of the concrete sidewalk. I have been coming to Washington Park since I was a kid. It was one of the few places our parents brought us to on a regular basis. The park features, two ponds, a beautiful view of the city skyline and two story wooden playground. Straight off a set for Mad Men, the playground has the original enclosed metal slides, a wobbly wooden bridge and a countless number of toothpick sized splinters. It is the only wood playground that I know to still be in existence.
Mia makes a b-line for the ramp that leads into the first floor. The area is completely shaded by the wood slats above. She runs down the passageway, makes a right across the bridge, takes a left down the steps, runs a full sprint across the wood chipped ground and then ascends a diagonal ladder (the ladder is angled 25 degrees to make it accessible for toddlers). She peeks into the green metal tunnel that is elevated to her mid chest and then turns left to cross the bridge again. When I see her cross the bridge for the second time, I know she has established her circuit for the day. I dont want to hyperbolize, but EVERY time we go to a playground, Mia finds a route to run and does it over and over and over again.
I attribute the obsessive behavior to anxiety. The same assurance she gets from carrying a toy in the crook of her arm I believe she gets from the predictability of the playground. I have always described Mia as cautiously adventurous. She has an undeniable curiousity, but she also see's imminent death at every turn. As a result she has been know to get on all fours and crawl up even the smallest number of steps. She loves slides, but rarely goes down them on her own. She always wants me to hold her in my lap and use my arms as a seatbelt. In therapy, we are working on pushing her past her comfort zone, as a result she cries a lot. I don't want her to live her early years constantly frustrated and uncomfortable. I'm not going to push her past her limits today. Today she can run.
