Because something happened, week after week, as I fumbled my way out the door (usually late), bag stuffed with ratty play clothes, dodgy old shoes, a raincoat, water, and some rice crackers. I’d sigh at the effort. But then—then I’d step into that bushland.
Off my daughter would run, disappearing into the trees with a bunch of other kids while the adults just… watched. Not with panic. Not with that clenched-jaw I was used to. But with quiet confidence. With trust.
Some of the kids were making fairy houses. Some were carving sticks. Others were halfway up trees that would make a ‘playground supervisor’ reach for the incident report folder.
But there was no fear.
No hovering.
Just calm observation, the occasional gentle reminder to “mind your space,” and the soundtrack of laughter echoing through the trees.
And the parents—well, they weren’t like the parents I’d met at other places for kids.
These people looked me in the eye. They smiled. They asked real questions. They didn’t flinch when my daughter threw a wobble, or when I confessed I didn’t know what the heck I was doing.
They were my people.
Not instantly. But gradually. Conversation by conversation. Over snacks shared by the fire, and wet bums on tarps.
While our children played hide and seek in the forest—unseen, but utterly audible—squealing with joy.
They were the kind of people who genuinely enjoyed their kids, or who were at least trying really bloody hard to enjoy this season of parenting—one of the hardest, let’s be honest. Let’s not sugar-coat the sleep deprivation, the overwhelm, the daily emotional intensity of living with tiny humans.
But these were people who saw their children as whole humans. Not as problems to solve. Not as a checklist of “Can they read? Can they write?”
And being around them… it changed me.
