Rain fell softly over the princesses, but the rainbow layer cake was safe under cellophane.

The grown-ups clustered under the broad leaves of the horse chestnut tree, where the crumbled pavement was still dry. It was warm, the kids had party bags, so the rain was more a soft gentle icing to the day than any impediment.

We stood together in space and time; 18 months into COVID, three to seven years into parenthood. That Saturday afternoon we made small talk, and held our similar worries in our pockets. Into one side we tucked our adult obligations; bills, cars, and “What to make for dinner and how is it that we have to figure this out each and every frigging day”? In the other wriggled a more subtle uncertainty, a buzzing undercurrent of concern about how to keep them safe.

There was an invisible line between each parent under the tree, and one or more of the wriggly, grubby, skinned-knee kid out on the damp playground.

Parents are boring because they’re constantly talking about their kids.

But we do it because it’s so deeply relevant to us.

Underneath our boasting about reading, and our questions about where our friend booked swimming lessons lurks a gnawing hungry uncertainty, a fearful tension.

Each day you let out a little more rope, you give them the freedom to cut with sharp knives, operate a sewing machine, walk home by themselves, and experience the bitter pain of not being invited to the party. But while we loosen our grip and play out the line, we feel an animal hunger for the kind of certainty that’s impossible to ever obtain. We may be mature enough to have given up on this certainty for ourselves, but we somehow still yearn to purchase security for our children.

It’s comforting though, to stand in the rain in the neighbourhood park, with other parents.