Rhys pushed a little girl today.

She was behind him on the slide, waiting her turn, but still slightly too close for my son’s liking.

She wanted her turn, but my blonde haired boy was taking his time, not considering the queue, but rather just doing his own thing.

She came into his space, and he non-verbally communicated with a little push. Nothing violent. Nothing harmful or malicious. Just a message of how he was feeling. A physical gesture for a boy who can’t communicate in words, like all the other children in the playground.

Once Rhys had descended the metal tunnel, he jumped up and run back for a second go. I watched the girl reach the bottom, she stood up and ran towards her mum, then pointed to the boy in the bright yellow jacket.

I felt a nervousness deep in my gut. Would this lead to a conversation or be brushed off as playground banter? It had happened before, and it was a lottery over what parent would be next in the line up of conversation.

But this time I didn’t wait to find out. Rhys was off to the swings, so I ran to help him out. A get-out-of-jail-free-card that I gladly accepted on this occasion.

I don’t agree in playground violence. If the push had been harmful, I would have been the first one up there to demand my son to say sorry – in his own creative way. But it wasn’t. It was a little nudge, a hint at his uncomfortable feelings of her presence in his space.

This is what I deal with. I don’t sit on the side at playgrounds or play centres. I lurk around the edges watching. I follow my son with my eyes to make sure he is safe. Little kids are safe, and that he is supported where he needs to be.

Maybe one day I can take my eyes off him for a second. Maybe one day I can sit on the side and have a coffee or a catch-up or a chill.

Maybe one day.

But not today.