“Absolutely,” I replied, watching as Oliver eagerly put on his boots. The boys had been bickering since they got home from school, and I thought a trip to the nearby creek, hidden among the trees behind our house, might help channel their energy. I was hoping for a moment of peace, free from the usual reminders to “be nice” or “use your words instead of fighting.”
Oliver and Noah dashed ahead, and I hurried to keep up. For a moment, I paused to reflect on the countless hours I spent exploring my neighborhood as a child, either alone or with friends.
At just 6 years old, we’re beginning to let Oliver play outside on his own for brief stretches. In this era of overprotective parenting, it feels a bit rebellious. My husband and I sneak glances out the window every few minutes, despite having enjoyed far more freedom during our own childhoods. But two kindergartners wandering in the woods alone—one of whom isn’t even my son? I decided to follow them.
Swatting away the tiny mosquitoes that seemed to appear overnight, I trailed behind, my nerves calming as I absorbed the sights and sounds of nature. The boys splashed in the creek, with Oliver crossing to the other side while Noah balanced on a fallen log. I held my breath, envisioning the worst-case scenario of one of them slipping into the muddy water. “Be careful, guys!” I called out.
“Hey, Oliver!” a girl’s voice called. Both boys turned to see a fifth-grader from the neighborhood descending the hill, her younger sister in tow. The boys quickly joined them on the other side of the creek. I glanced down at my shoes, regretting my choice of footwear. Should I cross the creek to stay close to them? I chuckled at the thought of my own parents trailing after me during my adventures. Though Oliver has a strong will, he is also cautious like I was. I decided to remain on my side of the creek as long as I could still see them.
As I looked around, I often think about how fortunate my kids are to have the creek and woods as their playground. I smiled at the thought of how vast the woods must seem to them. I recalled my own childhood, exploring what I once thought was a sprawling forest between my house and my brother’s best friend’s home. Now, as an adult driving past, I realize it was merely a small cluster of trees.
“Hey, do you want to see a dead raccoon?” one of the girls asked, snapping me from my daydream.
“No, no, no!” I shouted across the creek, but the boys were already intrigued and following her.
“Well, we’re not sure if it’s dead. It might just be hurt,” the older girl added. My heart raced as I imagined a rabid raccoon lying in wait, but the reality was likely much less dramatic. I followed them from a distance, worrying about the potential impact of witnessing a dead animal on my sensitive son.
“Oliver!” I yelled. “Come back!”
But they were already on the scene. I could either leap across the creek to prevent him from seeing the raccoon or let him experience this moment with his friends. Isn’t encountering a dead animal with peers a rite of passage?
When I was around 8 years old, I witnessed a tragic event when a speeding motorcycle struck and killed my best friend’s cat. While I was disturbed, I was also oddly fascinated by the aftermath. For weeks, my friend and I reenacted the incident on my lawn, one of us playing the motorcyclist while the other mimicked the cat’s unfortunate fate.
Despite my reservations about allowing Oliver to see the raccoon, I reasoned that he would likely be fine. I personally emerged only mildly traumatized from witnessing that cat’s demise. If he struggled with it, his school had a wonderful social worker—a resource I didn’t have access to in my youth.
“Hey, it’s alive!” Oliver yelled, running back toward me.
“Cool!” Noah exclaimed.
“How do you know?” the younger girl asked.
“Its eyes were open!” Oliver answered excitedly.
My heart swelled with pride at his innocent perspective. I exchanged a knowing look with the older girl. At 10, she likely understood that an unmoving, open-eyed raccoon was, in fact, deceased. Against the backdrop of the tall birch trees, Oliver seemed so small.
“Do you want to see, Mom?” Oliver asked, offering me his hand to help me cross the creek. We’d seen deer and turkeys around our yard, but a raccoon was a new adventure.
“That’s alright,” I replied, trying not to grimace.
Shortly after, the girls headed back up the hill toward their home, while Oliver, Noah, and I began our ascent back to ours.
“Hey, be gentle, boys!” I shouted as they playfully batted sticks at each other.
“We’re just playing Star Wars, Mom,” Oliver said.
I sighed, reflecting on the freedom I had in the late ’70s and ’80s. Back then, we learned to navigate the world on our own, only returning home when things escalated beyond our control.
However, there’s also a significant benefit to staying close to my children when I can. Today, I found a balance between supervision and allowing them to face life’s tougher lessons. I witnessed Oliver’s capability to cross the creek and explore, yet he remained innocent enough to see a raccoon as a mere curiosity.
I won’t always be there when my kids venture into the woods or the wider world, but today I was—and I’m grateful for that.
For more on parenting and exploring the world around you, check out this insightful post on home insemination here. If you’re interested in learning more about at-home insemination kits, CryoBaby is a great authority on the topic. For further information on reproductive health, the CDC offers excellent resources.
Summary
This piece reflects on the delicate balance of allowing children to explore their surroundings while ensuring their safety. The author shares personal anecdotes about childhood freedom and the joys and fears of parenting, ultimately celebrating the small moments that shape their kids’ experiences.