Small world

Park thoughts

If you happen to live in Canada, or be a completist, you might have seen that my latest Globe and Mail column was about drinking in parks. You might even have put together from it that while I got a kick out of this topic I… do not have strong feelings on the issue itself either way. I will say however that I was one of the few beerless parents at the playground this afternoon. I say this not to judge or narc (lol as if this is the sort of thing you could get Toronto police on if you were actually for some reason interested in doing so) but to say that playgrounds… it is a lot of playground-going, if that’s what your kids are the right age for.

It’s partly that playgrounds are exciting for ages 1.5 to ? (I’m sure eventually they become less so), but also that there’s nothing else you can do. I keep thinking of the time we went to a historical site, Fort York, and then you had to exit through a gift shop composed solely of Hyacinth Bucket’s Royal Doulton with the handpainted periwinkles (or close enough) and have never wanted to get out of a store so quickly. You can (and we do, sometimes) pay to go to a kid-friendly entity (aquarium, nature museum) that guaranteed the younger child winds up sleeping through.

This morning, however, we did something really wild and went to a new playground, apparently new-new and not just new to us, in an entirely different neighborhood. It’s one where we once almost moved (same could be said of half the city though), and the whole thing set forth an unexpected bit of FOMO, even if what I apparently fear missing out on is the exact same life but a mile or so east of where we live.

The new playground, was it better? Possibly. It had one of those Sam James coffee shops nearby, hipster minimalists with good coffee, but at any rate those now all of the Sam Jameses stock the spelt cinnamon rolls. I paid the toll (gave small pieces of this to the two-year-old) and spent a little bit of time also not in a playground. All of us then spent about 10 hours trying to get a slice of pizza, because figuring such things out is apparently not my forte. I don’t advise doing this while pushing a stroller with two children in it, or at all.

Also in not-the-playground: I tried on a blazer, yes, one whole entire blazer, at the weird-hours-keeping vintage store (I know, really narrows it down) that was on the walk home from this expedition. It was this all-wool black or navy one with scallopped trim. Clearly great quality, and made in Montreal, like all the best blazers, but also did me no favors (buttons way too low) and I may be one to throw $45 CAD around on nonsense but I apparently drew the line at this nonsense.

Then as soon as I left I’m thinking, but it did actually fit, kind of, and the design was so good, the material so much better than anything new. Talked myself down from this by remembering it is the last thing I need, and the wool was itchy, and maybe one day I will look in a vintage store with more blazer options, good I did not decide this was The Blazer and rule that out, and then I came home and made a tart shell and custard as my me-time, and then changed into whatever the opposite of a blazer is and we went to the local playground, where I know almost everyone by face but not today’s faces by name, and now we’re home.