For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the nurturing mom in our neighborhood, always ready to console a lonely child at school pick-up or keep an eye on the little ones at the grocery store. That was until yesterday when I found myself telling a golden-haired girl at the park to go away.
It was a lovely, sunny day, and I had the perfect picnic in mind. I filled our backpack with balls, bubbles, sand toys, and a Frisbee. My older daughter, Mia, brought her scooter, and we headed to the nearby park, which was accessible for my younger daughter, Ava, who navigated her bright pink power wheelchair with ease. My goal was to spend quality time with both girls, helping Ava enjoy the park like any child would, despite her challenges.
Once we arrived, we found a shady patch to lay out our picnic blanket. Ava parked her wheelchair, and we settled down for lunch and a light-hearted game. Mia zoomed off on her scooter, whirling around the grassy area where Ava and I were playing with bubbles. After a while, we packed up and made our way to the swings, slides, and climbing structures.
Mia led the way, leaving her scooter beside the swing set. A few moments later, Ava and I arrived, parking her chair next to Mia’s. I took Ava’s arms to assist her as we approached an empty swing. With my hands over hers, I gently pushed her, sending her swinging happily while she called out to Mia. Soon, a golden-haired girl appeared, dressed in a bright sundress and hopping excitedly. She seemed around five or six years old. Ava greeted her, but the girl turned to me, pointing at Ava’s chair and asking, “Why does she have that?”
“It helps her get around quickly,” I explained.
Ava and I moved to the climbing gym, where I supported her step by step, my hand over hers and the other on her hip for balance. After a slow but steady climb, Ava reached the top of the smaller tower. Excitedly, she called for Mia, hoping to play a game of hide and seek. The golden-haired girl approached again, standing beside me. Her questions tumbled out in rapid succession: “Why do you have to help her walk? Why do you have to hold her hands?”
“Oh, it helps her balance and go faster,” I replied.
For the next half hour, we slid down slides, climbed back to the top, and played tag with Mia. Each time the golden-haired girl reappeared, she had more questions: “But why do you slide with her?” and “I’m five and I can do it by myself. Why can’t she?” I offered polite, kid-friendly explanations about Ava’s condition, intentionally avoiding terms like disease or weakness, as Ava was right there, happily engaged in play. I put on my best patient smile, hoping for a normal day in the park.
I noticed the girl’s mother was nowhere to be found. After scanning the area, I spotted a babysitter engrossed in her phone, glancing up occasionally to check on the girl. I chuckled to myself, understanding that even the babysitter likely needed a break from the girl’s endless questions. Unfortunately, she seemed too inexperienced to assist me, leaving me to fend for myself.
As Ava and I climbed the steps to the small tower once more, the golden-haired girl was right beside me. I could feel the impatience growing in her voice as she remarked, “It sure takes her a long time to get up there.” Frustrated that she had yet to acknowledge Ava, I turned slightly away and firmly said, “Go. Play.”
“Huh?” she replied, taken aback.
“Go. Play. Somewhere. Else,” I said, emphasizing each word in a low, stern voice. Finally, she disappeared.
Later that evening at dinner, we recounted our day at the park. “That little girl…” Ava began, but Mia interrupted, “She was following you!”
“She was annoying me,” Ava added with a laugh, rolling her eyes dramatically.
I couldn’t help but reflect on the golden-haired girl’s swift movements as she darted across the park, climbing to the top of the highest tower with ease, while Ava could only watch from below. I imagined her golden hair bouncing as she effortlessly conquered the monkey bars, reaching the top where she stood, exuding a princess-like aura.
With a pang in my heart, I said, “I felt the same way, Ava. She was annoying me too.”
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