My son loves the playground. I sometimes joke that he enjoys monkey bars even more than I enjoy human bars.
Actually, it’s truer to say that he loves playground equipment, regardless of where it’s found. When we installed a pull-up bar in our last home, it quickly became his favorite hangout, so to speak. Given a choice of activities, “hang on the bar!” was often his pick, and he would while away an hour swinging like a trapeze artist preparing to dismount.
In the absence of equipment designed for hanging, he will quickly press something else into service: a door frame, an overhead pipe, even the top edge of the refrigerator. We eventually broke him of the habit of hanging from curtain rods, but only after each had been torn from the wall at least once.
When we moved into our new home, our first order of business was to erect a swing set in the backyard, one that would accommodate him even after he grows out of what is typically considered to be the swing set age range. We ended up with a monstrosity that looks like a Soviet-era oil rig, but also one that will survive the apocalypse with little more than scuffing.
Yesterday my son and I were in the backyard well after his bedtime, playing on the swings in the near dark. Leaping off is his new favorite thing, and he would do so seemingly at random. I would push, the swing would reach its zenith, and he would simply continue on, arcing into the night.