Finding Playmates in a Country with Few Children

A gray October weekend. My daughter Miriam and I venture outside, stepping into the quiet calm of our small town in the Po Valley of Italy. The air is damp, and fog wraps around the houses and fields, softening every outline. The few figures moving through the town appear like shadows, enveloped in a surreal stillness. The sound of our steps, small and slow, is the only note breaking the silence.

As always, Miriam notices every detail. She’s only a year-and-a-half-old, but her big eyes sparkle with attentive curiosity. Holding tightly to my pinkie finger, she walks purposefully, as if each corner might reveal a new wonder. Even the wet, crumpled leaves on the street are uniquely enchanting to her.

We pass by a bench where an elderly gentleman, whose name we don’t know, sits every afternoon. He recognizes us, greeting us with a slight wave and a warm smile. Miriam responds radiantly with a little wave of her hand. He smiles again with the tenderness of someone perhaps revisiting distant memories or grandchildren he never met. I want to pause and talk, but the man’s sad smile stops me, suggesting an invisible wall between us. We exchange a nod and move on.

Miriam then looks up at me. “Kids?” she asks, with her little voice full of hope. It’s the same question each time: Where are the other children? Why don’t they come out to play? In our small town, especially during quiet times like this, children are rarely seen outdoors. Occasionally, we come across children – families passing quickly through parks or crossing town. However, the spontaneous gatherings and play of the past seem to have disappeared.

We continue walking. A sudden movement captures our attention. A familiar little cat appears around the corner. It’s our “weekend friend,” a comforting presence. As soon as Miriam sees it, she lets go of my hand and crouches down to pet it. The cat approaches, purring, happily receiving her attention. Miriam laughs, content, finding joy in that brief moment, a silent and innocent companionship. But he’s just a cat, and Miriam deserves more – something more playful and vibrant, like the games only children create together.

I look around, scanning the silent houses and closed windows, wondering where the families are. Italy’s birth rate is one of the lowest in Europe, with fewer families and even fewer children in each household. According to recent statistics, fewer than 400,000 children were born in Italy during 2023, contributing to an aging and shrinking population. In this environment, traditional community networks continue to weaken, and opportunities for children to interact decline.

Photograph by Maria Argutinskaya / Alamy Stock Photo.

Deep down, I know community has become a shadow of its own name. There are no playgroups, no sharing of smiles or simple games in the parks, not even on festive days or at the parish center! Families are the foundation and summit of any society worthy of the name, and yet they now seem reduced to isolated units, unable to connect, diluted in a sea where few things retain a clear identity, where each person closes off within their own shell.

We continue walking. I think of what I can do as a parent. How can we rebuild a community that values family and the simple joy of children playing together?

Observing the families around us, I notice their interaction patterns, or rather, the lack of them. Yes, children are present, but they seem like ghosts. They move almost exclusively within managed, controlled environments. We sometimes see them in parks, but they rarely engage in spontaneous play. Parents stay distant, perhaps smiling, but without involving themselves, without connecting with other parents or children. I’ve reached out to other parents on several occasions, hoping to form friendships that might lead to shared playtimes or community-building. Some parents share my concerns, but all are busy with demanding schedules, and their own uncertainties about fostering community can be an obstacle. We talk about practical matters, like daycare availability, but discussions rarely touch on ways to rebuild a sense of local connection.

There’s a social paradox here: as birth rates fall, our sense of community – already frayed – fades further, the state tries to help parents by providing day care. But by turning to these structured, institutional programs, are we missing out on essential parts of raising a child? There’s value in neighborhood friendships, shared parenting efforts, and the daily familiarity of community life that cannot be fully recreated in institutional settings.

Watching this trend, I can’t help but wonder if our society hasn’t subtly discouraged parents and families from building a strong, functional support network. For many, it seems safer to entrust their children to seemingly well-organized, structured environments than to encourage relationships at local playgrounds or with other families. But by relinquishing this crucial part of parenting, are we perhaps losing sight of what it truly means to raise a child?

While dependence on institutional childcare often reflects the difficulty of staying home with a child in today’s frenetic economy, dependence on the state reveals a social issue as well. Although neighbors may be ready to offer support, today’s parents seem conditioned to avoid forming close social connections. This may stem from the legitimate desire to ensure safety, but it also reveals deep fractures in our sense of trust and responsibility toward others. Safety has become one of the great idols of our times, consuming hope, freedom, and even faith.

In the past, raising a child was clearly a community effort. Now, parents feel isolated. They are pulled in many directions: work demands, the presumed need to climb the career ladder at all costs, household responsibilities.

Why do we feel safer distancing ourselves from our neighbors? I believe one reason is the loss of trust – that is, belief in the goodness of others. Without this trust, civilization risks collapsing down to its fundamental unit, the family. And it’s not just the youngest who lose out on forming relationships with neighbors and community friends. Parents, too, lose the solidarity born from the shared experience of parenting.

Children learn to live by watching their parents live. If they see us abandoning the formation of stable and meaningful relationships, why should they act differently? Thus, they also learn that these organic social bonds are less important, or even dispensable. This attitude, absorbed from a young age, subtly shapes their worldview, their understanding of community, and their values.

For many, certainly, staying home with their children is no longer feasible. At-home parenting, especially for those in lower-income brackets, is out of reach. The cost of living, combined with stagnant wages, has profoundly altered the traditional family model. Today, many families require dual incomes. This economic pressure may make parents feel as if they must delegate their children’s early socialization to public institutions, even if they would prefer a more direct approach. While recognizing economic stability as a real need, the problem is compounded when families lack access to community support networks. It is one thing is to stay at home with one’s child; it is quite another to remain there in isolation. A parent with strong ties to the community can rely on other parents, neighbors, or friends for support and companionship. In contrast, for families without these connections, home-based parenting appears economically burdensome and socially isolating.

What, then, can be done to reverse this trend of isolation? How can we rebuild a sense of belonging? Could we encourage the formation of local communities based on shared values and traditions, principles that can meet each family’s needs and contribute to the healthy growth of children? A concrete idea might be to encourage families with similar values to move to small towns or neighborhoods where they can find like-minded neighbors and participate in common initiatives. If these families were to relocate to areas chosen specifically for their child-friendly environments, social cohesion would benefit immensely.

In this light, together with a few willing families, and with the collaboration of the parish priest, we are working to make the parish a point of reference for families in our own community. We have already started organizing weekly gatherings for families, communal prayer, and activities for children. The goal is to bring the parish community back to the heart of daily life, offering both spiritual and practical support. We aim to create spaces for togetherness, where children can play freely under the watchful eyes of parents who are friends with one another, and where adults can find mutual support, exchange ideas, and build a communal life focused on the common good.

As we walk home, a veil of grey mist surrounds us. The sun has already set. The air is cold. The streetlights cast long, frayed shadows onto the pavement, as if trying to project our figures toward some faraway place. Miriam walks beside me, holding my pinkie finger, seemingly unaware of the silence weighing around us. The street, barren and deserted, feels like another world. Each corner is empty, and the only sound accompanying us is the gentle rustle of our footsteps.

Suddenly, Miriam tugs on my hand and points to a large yellow chestnut leaf lying on the asphalt. She bends down to pick it up. She studies it for a moment and, with the beaming enthusiasm only a child can possess, shows it to me. “Leaf!” she whispers, as though she has discovered a treasure. “Sun!” But the sun is nowhere to be seen, and my mind wanders back to a few mornings before, when Miriam and I were playing, watching sunlight filter through the branches in the garden.

Her voice is filled with a simple, innocent sweetness. The leaf, in her tiny hands, takes on a warm glow, as if holding on to a lingering trace of summer. A hint of melancholy stirs within me, but the way Miriam smiles at me, oblivious to the solitude around us, I feel something different. It is as if, in that insignificant fragment of autumn left by the roadside, she has found the promise of a new season.