The roughhousing began in preschool. Suddenly, the playground was filled with children engaging in mock battles and pretending to shoot each other with invisible guns. One day, my oldest son’s preschool teacher invited us in for a chat. It turned out that our sweet boy was one of the main instigators, crafting his sandwiches into gun shapes and “taking out” his friends at the lunch table. We assured her that we didn’t have any violent games or toy weapons at home and that we discouraged aggressive play. But she calmly suggested we consider allowing him some freedom for that type of play.
We were shocked. “You mean we should let him play with toy guns?” I asked. “Shoot at us?”
“Yes,” she responded. She explained that some room for expression, as long as it didn’t lead to harm, could be beneficial.
My son’s fascination with guns eventually faded, but a peculiar sense of aggression and thrill-seeking took root in both of our boys once they hit their teen years. Their rough play escalated with their friends. They began playfully teasing, shoving, leaping off rocks, and scaling walls. My oldest, Max, once picked up his younger brother during a playful moment and accidentally dropped him, resulting in his second broken arm. Then there was the night when a friend accidentally sprayed a chemical in Max’s eyes. Oh, and we can’t forget the infamous fireworks and Axe body spray incident in our living room.
One day, my boys and their friends decided to throw a stick at a wasp nest, which predictably ended with them being chased and stung. One boy was so furious that he returned the next day for “revenge,” which, depending on your perspective, either went terribly or hilariously. Thankfully, we managed to treat the stings with ice packs and Benadryl, and luckily, no one required hospitalization.
Then came skateboarding, and that’s when the injuries really began to accumulate. Each mishap played into my worst fears, creating a mental reel of catastrophic accidents: a misplaced wrestling hold resulting in a broken neck; cars speeding down our street colliding with my boys while they attempted skateboarding tricks; falls from rooftops or ramps leading to serious injuries.
“I’m not ready for teenagers,” I confessed to my friend Jake one afternoon while we floated in the community pool. I watched my husband at the diving board, reliving his glory days as a gymnast by flipping into the water, while my sons and their friends terrorized each other with water guns. They had just engaged in a lengthy debate over why it was essential to aim for the eyes during water battles.
“It’s gotta sting, or it’s no fun,” they insisted.
“I just don’t get this stage,” I admitted to Jake, who was blissfully enjoying the elementary school years with his own calm, violin-playing son. “Nothing in my experience has prepared me for this. I need to try something different. I have to get them to settle down.”
Jake, being a good listener, contemplated my dilemma before responding.
“One thing,” he said, “All you need. Just one word.”
I was intrigued. Jake is a smart guy; I thought he might have some insight to offer. “What is it?” I asked.
“Zoloft.”
“Yeah, let’s medicate the kids. Hilarious.”
“No,” he chuckled. “Not the kids. You.”
He was right, of course—not necessarily about medication, but about needing to relax. Trying to get my boys to tone down their playful antics was like trying to herd cats. I told myself to chill; they were just full of energy. The issue was that I came from a family of gentle musicians, more accustomed to cradling babies than engaging in rough play. Suddenly, I found myself constantly nursing injuries. In a particularly eventful two-week stretch, we experienced two broken bones, a mild concussion, and a giant set of stitches. During one ER visit, a doctor mistook me for an employee and asked about my family. Wrong!
What drives this physicality and appetite for risk? It’s a simple formula: athletic exuberance, excess energy, testosterone, and a not-yet-fully-developed prefrontal cortex. My husband, unfazed by all this chaos, even participates in it, play-fighting with the kids and getting himself injured while cycling. He enjoys watching the FailArmy YouTube channel with the boys, which showcases a series of cringe-worthy stunts that often lead to injury. While I worry it’s giving them ideas, he argues it’s teaching them what not to do and sharpening their critical thinking as they analyze the missteps.
It’s impossible to prevent my boys from doing most of what they want, so I started to see the logic in preparing them for the inevitable. I’ve lectured on the importance of protective gear, and Max has even taken a first aid course. I’ve programmed the ER number into my phone and researched sprains, fractures, concussions, and compartment syndrome. I can now assess whether a gash requires stitches or glue, and I’ve set up a dedicated box for braces, slings, and ace bandages. We even own a pair of crutches! Preparing for real-life outcomes seems to have quelled my mental crash reels. Although I occasionally wish my boys would stay inside practicing music, I’ve finally come to terms with giving them the freedom to pursue what they clearly love and need to do.
This article was originally published on April 4, 2023.