The park was MY park.
Or so I thought.
At some point on the way to my favorite neighborhood park, an adult must have said, “Let’s go to your park,” and I interpreted them literally.
So when we drove past the park and I saw other children playing, I silently praised myself for being so generous.
When we showed up one day and there was a large event, I thought nothing of joining in the relay races. It was my park, after all. My mom pulled me away, and I was confused, but didn’t let it get me down too much. After all, there were swings to be swung, spinny things to balance, and wooden platforms to climb.
I held a birthday party at my park, and felt like royalty as guests arrived to celebrate in my splendid kingdom. I was the luckiest little child.
Then one day, as we drove past my park in the bed of Grandpa’s truck, I announced to my cousins: “That’s my park, but I let other people play there.”
I fully believed this to be true — until my cousin said, “That’s not your park. That’s for everyone.”
“Well, yes, I know,” I responded patiently. “I share it with anyone who wants to play. But it’s mine.”
“No, it’s not,” he insisted.
I don’t remember which grownup finally confirmed my cousin’s declaration as truth, but I do remember how my joy shattered.
Nothing had truly changed — the park was still open to anyone and everyone, including myself — but the thing I thought had made me special had vanished. The thing that I knew without a doubt to be true was untrue.
And it happened in the blink of an eye.
I remember feeling defensive, and then as the truth materialized in my mind, my defensiveness turned to a feeling of foolishness. How had I ever formed that thought in the first place, and why did I believe it? I couldn’t have been older than 5 or 6, and I felt so small.
So young.
So stupid.
So disappointed.
I think of this often as I raise my children. What do they not yet understand about the world? And how can I help them encounter disappointment when they gradually learn uncomfortable things?
Children will feel disappointed and stupid from time to time. But we can soften those blows so that it doesn’t crush them. As my crushing truth demanded my attention, a grownup — maybe my dad — said to me, “I understand this is disappointing. I understand that felt real.” They didn’t laugh or smirk.
And while I felt devastated by the truth of the public park, I also felt wrapped up in safety as I faced a disappointing blow. A grownup told me they understood. I mourned the loss of something that was never actually mine, but I did it in a nice, little cocoon of protection.
That’s a gift we can give to our children as they bump through their understanding of the world. There will be pain, but it can be pain that doesn’t feel humiliating and demoralizing — as long as they’re surrounded by the understanding love of kind grownups.