I was walking around my neighbourhood, trying to cool down after a horribly overdue run. And then I passed by three deserted playgrounds.
It’s the March holidays. It’s considered evening this very moment. I would safely say, at this moment a decade ago, the playground would be filled with people queuing up for slides and rocking on the toy horses, even though it doesn’t seem of much fun to me anymore.
I remember how I used to play on swings in these sandy playgrounds, begging my maid to accompany me downstairs to join the rest of the kids who were screaming and shrieking to my envy.
I remember how I insisted on bringing my bicycle along to the hawker centre even though it was a hassle to carry it down staircases when my neighbourhood wasn’t handicapped-friendly yet (problematic child alert).
I remember how kids my age played with sparklers every festive holiday and how I’d gaze down from the window, wishing I could join them. Throwing paper balls down through my metal-grilled windows as messages to my neighbours expressing my resentment, because I wasn’t allowed to leave the house after 8pm.
And I wonder, at this time and age, whether mobile devices and enrichment classes starting from ages as young as three are robbing children of their childhood.