The Splash Pad

The town where we live has an awesome splash pad. Some places call them splash parks or spraygrounds, but you know what I'm talking about, right?  A big old area with foam flooring, containing various spraying apparati under which children run around with reckless abandon and pure, unadulterated joy?

Well, some children do. 

Thus far in his childhood career, my kid has wanted nothing to do with the Splash Pad.  Which is a big fat shame because the place seems altogether awesome to me. 

Let me run down the Splash Pad's selling features:

• It is free.
• It is close to our house.
• It appeals to a wide range of ages.
• It wears children out.
• It is open earlier in the day than the pool is.  
• Unlike the pool, it does not require parents to go through the hassle of changing into/changing out of/exposing the world to their bathing suits.
• A parent can mostly just sit on the sidelines in the shade and read or talk to other parents.  

For a few short months a year, Memorial Day to Labor Day, we have access to this near-perfect family activity.

The fact that the Splash Pad season is so limited, so fleeting, and so anticipated during the drudgerous months of winter just serves to make me want to take advantage of the place at every possible opportunity. 

So, naturally, Nathan hates the place.  It began the summer after he turned 1, when there were really few other recreational facilities that were appropriate for him.  At the Splash Pad, I reasoned, he couldn't get into too much danger running around on a flat, padded surface, and since he was so little he was still in that stage where every bit of minor excitement was like a thrill ride to him. 

That first summer he was mobile, he made it clear that he was absolutely terrified of the Splash Pad.  He was also terrified of showers, so it made sense that he wasn't so much into anything that was going to spray water down on him. 

Then the pointless efforts to get him to like the Splash Pad continued the summer he was two, and then the summer he was three.  We tried the peer pressure angle: Maybe if he sees his friends having fun in the Splash Pad, he'll want to go in, too.  No go.  The Splash Pad is next to a park, and all Nathan wanted to do was play in the park.  Even when we went to a Splash Pad birthday party, Nathan was the only kid who wanted to play in the park. 

I resigned myself to the idea that I would be the only mom standing over in the playground while all the other moms clustered in the Splash Pad.  We did have some minor victories, where he'd skirt the perimeter of the Splash Pad and catch an errant spray. 

AND THEN ... at the beginning of this summer he finally got up the courage to go full-steam into the sprays and get soaking wet.  I figured maybe he just needed time to appreciate the Splash Pad. 

But his Splash Pad interest was short-lived, because the next several times we went to the Splash Pad, Nathan wanted nothing to do with it.  Which, honestly, is totally fine.  Who cares if he doesn't want to go in a stupid Splash Pad?  It's not like Run through a splash pad is a state academic standard.  At least not in Illinois, it isn't. 

But ... I guess I just get worked up when I see this opportunity that is so fleeting, so simple, so purely joyful ... and then my kid doesn't want to do it.  I admit that this would be an occasion where I've fallen into the parental psychological cliche of wanting to live vicariously through my kid.  What I wouldn't give to run through sprinklers on a hot day in my bathing suit without a shred of self-consciousness. 

Oh, and hey, Child, did you see my bulleted list of the Splash Pad's selling features above?  What is not to love?

Plus it seems that every. other. child. on. the. planet. loves the Splash Pad.  And then, as with all occasions where my kid seems to be the only kid who doesn't like something, the worried mother in me surfaces (not that she was buried too deep anyway) and I wonder, Is there something wrong with him?  Is there something wrong with me? 

Why I don't give up on the whole Splash Pad is beyond me.  The fact that I won't let this go is really ridiculous.  But I guess because we're frequently getting invited to playdates at the Splash Pad, I can't just go and pretend the whole place doesn't exist. 

So ... yesterday was ridiculously hot for September.  Like, almost 100 degrees.  Because school has started, the pool is now on reduced hours, which meant the only option for cooling off and still running around outdoors was the Splash Pad.  I told Nathan's friend Louie's mom I would pick him up and take them both to the Splash Pad. 

Nathan refused to put on his bathing suit.  They played in the park, and it was so hot I felt like it was cruel to even have them out there.  Eventually I coerced Louie into going in the water.  Nathan stood outside the Splash Pad's fence and declared that he hated this park, and asked if we could never go there again. 

Eventually he asked if he could put on his bathing suit.  But then after he got changed, he just stood there.  And then finally, finally, he played with the squirt gun:

And then he got wet! 

I'm not certain he's sold on Splash Pads for good now.  And, quite frankly, I'm kind of glad it's Labor Day and we don't have to worry about it anymore.  I fully acknowledge that my fretting over a stupid Splash Pad may, in fact, be the most pointless worry I have had thus far in my parental career, and that means it is at the top of a very long list.