London's park mothers aggressively participate

In south London's parks mothers are, almost aggressively, participate. They play. This goes from the base level of park participation, pushing children on swings, roundabouts and see-saws, to unashamedly public and declamatory-singing of nursery rhymes, building of sand castles, splashing of paddling pools and encouragement of assorted offspring in any number of games of ball, stick and make believe. There is an unwritten, but fundamental,emphasis on interaction.

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I've seen it get competitive. An enthusiastic mother is suddenly challenged, her lilting rendition of she'll be coming round the mountain overlaid by the carrying vibrato of a new mother singing the hokey pokey with the power and conviction of a choir of Welsh miners. Their eyes meet across the bars of a climbing frame, it's bright primary colors acting like the flashing red of a matador's cloak to stimulate these mothers, to put them on their mettle; their heads come up, their proud chests fill with air, a hush descends over children poised at the top of slides, suspended by their hands from wooden bars, gaily conveying handfuls of sand to their open mouths, as these two mothers clash in song, the waves of sound echoing down the slopes of Camberwell Grove, of Denmark Hill, to roll into the city, joining the hum of traffic, the judder of roadworks and the rattle of trains in the constant background noise of London.

To go to the park is to join, even if only at the margins, in this noble spirit of participation.

There is no such spirit in Paris. Instead, there is a soothing absence of parental play. Mothers are quite happy to dump their babies in the sandpit and to sit down on a bench and contemplate them from afar. Very often the babies too simply sit, contemplative like their parents, occasionally picking up a handful of sand and watching it slip slowly through their fingers.

Posted in Health and Medical Post Date 01/28/2023