This is the first time since I’ve had my three children that I am able to come close to finishing a conversation with a friend while our kids play at the park. I’ve only recently even considered stopping for a cup of coffee on the way and then proceeding to drink it while we're there, for fear of drenching myself in the scalding stuff as I run to rescue a screaming kid.

Now, with a kids who can eat, drink, and, walk on their own, I feel like it’s an altogether different ballgame. It’s all about my spot on the playing field when we’re at the park. 

Lately, I have to strategically position myself so that I can see each child as he or she is playing. On a good day, they play in the same spot, on the same piece of equipment, for probably only 20 seconds of the entire time we’re there. And I’ve already attempted a group rotation of playground spots—10 minutes at the baby-ish part, 10 at the more challenging one, then 10 at the “big kids” part—but it was more trouble than it was worth.

One day I forgot my watch and didn’t charge my cell phone, so I was without the crucial timer. Plus, what’s more strange: The mom with a whistle, moving her troops from place to place, or the mom poised and ready to pounce, just a football field away from the action?

I have to almost position myself out of the park itself—miles away from any other adult—so that I can see them. I usually ditch the cute shoes for sneakers on these days so that I can morph into superhero, Olympic-runner mom in order to potentially reach the injured kid or grab her before some lurking stranger does. But I have to admit that the more I get comfortable being that far-away, edge-of-the-park mom, the more I like it. It gives me a chance to think. Forget about actually interacting with my children. I can do that when we’re at home, corralled in our back yard or living room. Forget about catching up with the latest mom-group gossip. I can live without that. What I’ve realized is that I can really look at my kiddos when I step back a bit.

In the time that my children were spread out around the playground today, in my solitude, I wondered how their playing reflected the people they’d evolve into in the next few years. My oldest has branched out beyond the play sets this spring and runs toward the climbable trees. Pines, cherry, pear—whatever she can reach, she climbs. With sappy fingers and a proud smile, she talks about the bugs she spotted and the birds she scared away when she danced among the branches. When she gets high enough, she calls for us to come see her. With my heart in my throat, I watch her younger siblings yell and holler to her with awe in their eyes.

Does this mean she’ll be like most first children, constantly challenging herself, most times seeking approval from others and always looking for an opportunity to try new things? Will she really shatter that glass ceiling and be our first female president and wave to us from her motorcade? Or is she just stretching her wings, trying to see how far she can go from me before I call her to come closer?

I watched my son as he climbed up the tall, swirly slide then twisted around and down the fire pole. He was chasing after his imaginary buddies and picturing himself with a cape one minute, in a racecar the next. He’d crawl up the most unusual spots of the play set; he won’t use the steps or climb the bars. He always seems to do things his own way, squeezing his 3-year-old body through tiny spots, army crawling over the sides, then inching sideways down the bars.

Will he always be this way? Will he march to his own beat and go through life at his own pace, comfortable with where he is and who he’s with? Will he always manage to make it where he needs to be, just via his own route? Will he be an artist, an actor, inventor, or engineer—someone who is able to see things in a way that others cannot?

My youngest followed the identical route—stairs, platform, slide, stairs, platform, slide—about a dozen times until she figured out that she could cut out five steps if she skipped the stairs and hurled her tiny body over the platform. She struggled at first, but with a good wiggle and a squirm, she made it to the platform. And if she did it once, she did it 60 times—the new route, that is. Up-and-over, platform, slide, up-and-over, platform, slide. 

Was she showing me that my baby would forever be on the hunt for the easiest or most efficient way of doing things? Would she be a corner-cutter or a creator of that million-dollar time saver we all need? Will she be like many youngest children—reliant on others most times but secretly always able to step up on her own? Or will she be a creature of habit, happy in her everyday routine, a homebody who will be a great mother to her own babies one day?

Only time will tell whether my children's playground play will have actually predicted their future choices. But until then, I’m just going to stand back, enjoy every day, and watch it all unfold—out here on my own, at the edge of the playground.