73/365 Swingset

I have a hand-me-down swingset in the backyard, donated by a friend whose kids are too big. It has a tower with a slide and space for three swings. Basic by todays' standards but compared to the metal ones I knew as a kid, it's awesome to be able to switch in and out the swings and the rings and the baby seat and all that in different combinations.

It isn't going to last forever and we've started talking about its replacement, which will probably involve a treehouse in the maple tree (or built around it), incorporating parts of the current set but stabilized and larger, since our kids are larger and there's more of them.

Thursday evening, I was washing dishes after dinner and looked up because I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Squirrels like my yard so I wasn't immediately alarmed. That happened once I focused and realized that Kenna and Adam were on the swingset.

The Friedman family used to live across the street from me, but Bruce let me know that they had moved into the apartment building they own, located behind me and down the alley a bit. Adam has some neurological problems and the big honkin houses we live in were too much acreage for him. He needed some place smaller, on one floor, where they could see him and keep a hold of him more easily. I have not walked a mile in their moccasins, so I don't have much to say about that, but I will say that looking out and seeing these two kids in my yard was not what I needed.

It wouldn't have been any big thing if they'd been, say, swinging on the swing set. I would have stepped outside and said, "Does your dad know you're here?" and advised them that perhaps, considering the time, they should head home. But no.

Kenna was walking on the top of it. Like, 7 feet in the air, balancing on rungs designed for hand-over-hand monkey bar stuff. And Adam was hanging upside down by his knees, no hands. It's not like this swingset is over a padded urethane surface or even over a thick layer of gravel or sand. It's about a half inch of tired mulch over dirt. Not the place to pull this kind of stuff.

I blow out my back door before I know what I'm going to say. And I say something equivalent to "Get the hell out of my yard." I didn't use those words, and I wasn't that succinct, but somewhere in paragraph one I let them know that they hadn't been invited and they weren't to be on the swingset without permission.

Kenna is the younger one, and obviously the follower. She was contrite and embarrassed. Adam was too, but it was different. He is different. He was apologizing and she was ducking away and they realized they didn't know how to leave.

"Well, how'd you get in?"

"Uh, I guess we jumped the fence," he admits.

He's seven.

I sigh and open the back gate, which is covered with Boston ivy, admittedly, and camouflaged with the rest of the fence. I open the back gate, and there's Bruce on his bike.

"Your kids were in my yard?"

"Huh?"

Adam and Kenna run out next to me.

"I've been looking for them--I didn't know where they were."

"They were in my yard. They jumped the fence."

Adam is still saying sorry as he runs over to his dad. I don't stay to find out what is said. I walk back into the yard and think about this space.

Not only is there a rundown swingset (that the neighbor kids that come over regularly know how to use right), but there's a big old galvanized pool. It's drained right now, and on its way to the alley next week for bulk trash pick up (we're going with a more easily dismantled plastic next summer), but what if it were filled and they'd jumped the fence? What if one of them had accidentally drowned in my backyard? Falling and breaking an arm is one thing. Drowning makes me sick to even think about. I mean, I've seen these two kids try to jump out a second story window onto pillows they'd put on the ground to soften their landing. And if they can jump the fence, the 6 foot fence, what can I do?