monkey bars or the slide?

Very often after a grueling day of activities including the long hard commute to work, answering and making phone calls, trying hard to look and sound "important" and the commute back, homework with my daughter, the steam rising at my face while in the kitchen, the screaming generated from the inevitable sibling rivalry that is my off-spring and many other things (gasping for breath, because I am overdue for a comma), there is a place where I take my children. . . the playground. There are many social queues that tie to this event. For the kids either option is presented to them. They could 1: Run away bolting to that magical place that they have longed for and finally have it within their sights forgetting completely about you the parent. Or they could 2: stay as close to you as possible seeing that they have feared ever leaving your sight. Once you arrive to the bench you tend to feel like an athlete leaving the field going to the sidelines and now your kids take over. There are times where you are feeling adventurous and join them on the swaying draw bridge, the twirly slide that shocks you 50 times as you go down, or the monkey bars where your feet already reach the ground just from standing. Most likely after an already "adventurous" day, you might tap out. Other parents gather in the fold monitoring their kids while accompanied by their phones. You get to witness the various styles of parenting. There are those who make their kids overdress with helmets, knee pads, or even that marshmallow suit that the police wear to test out their K-9's ferocity. Then you have the ones that argue with their kids about having to use the bathroom even though the kid already went before coming out to play. It's like their watering grounds with how animals come together to socialize (no, are kids are not animals, I'm simply giving an analogy, although my children tend to bark and quack). We really have no idea how to interact when other kids tackle yours down. You don't want to be anyone else's authoritarian (it's more awkward than dancing with your sister). You leave it to good faith that that kid's parent will step up and relieve you of having to bring balance back into the playground. One time, my son and another kid were wearing the exact same outfit and had the same haircut (only the other kid spoke French). I had this thought that my wife and I would mistaken the French kid as ours and the other parents would take home our son. What if they raised him as their own and likewise with us and their kid? And then after 20 years they meet back up somewhere in college? What a crazy idea. So I guess the moral of the story is to mark your kids with a Sharpie before heading to the park.