The Deconstruction of Childhood
By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann
The blue sky carries sludge-heavy air. Our backyard trees pretend they can stay cool, as long as they don’t move a leaf. In their shade, a trill of a power drill. My two boys, one almost nine, the other crossing the threshold of teen, kneel on a wood landing my husband constructed a year after the little one was born. These kids, two of our four for whom this structure was built, systematically (and with their father’s direct supervision) dismantle a roof, take off a slide, and remove railings. Adiós swing set.
Two or three weeks ago, my husband walked through the kitchen and said, “I’m gonna take the swing set down,” as casually as if told me he was about to fill up the car with gas.
“What? You can’t just—”
“They don’t use it—”
“Yes they do—”
He gives me a look between that’s sweet and you’re delusional—the same one he gives me if I say I’m going to fill up the car up with gas (instead of drive it around with the light on, empty for two more days). To make his point further, my fifteen-year-old daughter—our first baby who is now as tall as I am—walks in the room, as if on cue.
Chris and I lock eyes. “Viv still does!” I protest on behalf of our seven-year-old. But not often, I concede. There’s no resolution. The question hangs in the air unanswered: is the playset used enough to justify its landscape-y real estate of our backyard?
A few days later, Chris mentions it again. “The swing set needs to go.” This time, I don’t protest. A few more days pass and he announces, “It’s coming down this weekend”—like he’s sending warning shots. Speak now or forever hold your peace.
On Saturday, I can’t say I’m fully on board with the decision. And I don’t know if I’m okay or simply resigned to the inevitability? But when the drill comes out, when—screw by screw—the very children who swung and climbed and flipped and slid begin to take it apart, I grab my husband’s arm and say, “No… we don’t need to do this.”
We bought our house thirteen years into marriage, still feeling like two college kids living on love and a prayer. A year or two after moving in, I decided our kids needed a playset—an unnecessary expense I worked hard to justify. They’ll use it for years, I said.
I searched online for any neighbors selling theirs. For those “if you can move it, you can have it” type of posts. Finding one, I’d drive over, chat with the parents of kids now grown, in college or, at the very least, in the last few years of high school. Sadly, each structure was more weathered and worn down than the last. And each time I’d leave with a smile and a thanks anyway, then wonder: why didn’t they get rid of this sooner?
I eventually found DIY swing set plans online. My husband took the materials list to the lumber store. Then in our backyard, board by board, he patiently knelt on one knee while our oldest —the tall-as-me-now daughter, still chubby with cheeks and front teeth she hadn’t yet grown into—“helped” him build the structure.
She and her younger brother loved to swing. I’d spend hours out there pushing on their tiny backs, their outstretched feet. I tried to teach them to pump, Dear God let them get it, feet out, feet back. Feet out, feet back. I’d plop the baby in his seat, strap him in and give it a pull. I’d tickle his toes each time he came close and my insides would bubble over, effervescent, from his uncontrollable giggles.
When they were finally old enough, I could just say, “Go outside and play.” Day after day after day. For years. And years. And years. Go swing. Go climb. Go slide. Go make use of the space you’ve been given. Go be a kid. From my living room, the kitchen, our bedroom, I’d hear their laughing squeals, watch their conspiratorial whispers, and sometimes—if I stopped long enough—actually feel their joie de vivre.
“It’s coming down,” Chris says to me now.
“Can you at least take a picture?” I ask.
He smiles. “I already did.”
About a year ago, on an unremarkable day, I walk into my kids’ bathroom to, presumably, wipe a counter or collect some dirty clothes from the floor. There, I notice the longstanding potty seat where it has hung unceremoniously on a hook next to the toilet for the last ten years. The seat is plastic, its cushion white. On it, small Sesame Street characters do Sesame Street things. Big Bird waves, Elmo—helmet on—rides a skateboard, and Cookie Monster, understandably, eats cookies. I grab the handle, walk out to the living room where my youngest reads a book. “Viv, do you use this anymore?”
She barely looks up, “Nope.”
Something satisfying clicks inside my body, like a door that latches well. I hold the seat up and for a moment, I see their cute little tushes and squeeze soft squishy thighs. I feel the ache of my rear from sitting on the hard tile floor, reading board book after board book waiting. Then without ceremony, I give it a Marie Kondo thank you and think, thank God we’re done with that. I smile and nearly sing, “goodbye potty seat!” then chuck it in the trash.
I’ve held onto only a handful of my kids’ old things—little outfits, a couple of baby toys, some special gifts. I have every sweater their Grandma knit. It’s all in a bin, somewhere. Or on the shelf of a closet. Overall, I don’t lament my kids growing up.
But what’s happening in my backyard? It feels different.
Like they’re deconstructing their childhood.
Those tiny clothes, books, toys—they’re for my kids. To see, to tangibly hold: You used to fit in this! Read this. Play with this. Look how sweet you were.
But they’re also for me. Proof. They really were that small. They loved that book. They used to play with this toy. These growing-bigger kids were once itty-bitty babies. So now, with every screw wound out, every bracket disconnected, every hinge removed, my skin cools and my head swims. I have to steady myself. What now? What comes next? What will be the proof of these years?
I know this decision will make room for something new. For more. For the firepit, to hang out with their friends. A patio table to laugh around and eat at and play cards on. For a porch swing, perfect for whispered secrets with best friends. We’re making space. We’re preparing for expansion. Of hearts, and minds, and dreams.
I’ll get used to this new chapter.
I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.