My son runs toward me, crying. He has fallen in the indoor adventure playground. The room is enormous – an aircraft hangar of soft surfaces, spongy balls, trampolines and slides. It would, you’d think, be a challenge to hurt yourself in this environment, but it’s a challenge my son has accepted. He is not alone. A steady torrent of children streams from the cushioned gate down the padded steps to run, bawling, into their parents’ arms. We lie to ourselves that this is a place of fun. It is not. It is a house of horrors, a speed-run through trauma that parents use to toughen their children up. The cruel trick of such places is that the price of their enjoyment is a secret lesson in suffering and resilience. A kiss on the elbow, or a brief hug, and they’re back in the game, sprinting off for another eight-minute chunk of activity until their next life-ending misfortune.
