“Of course,” I replied, as Liam eagerly pulled on his boots. The boys had been at each other’s throats since they disembarked from the bus, and a trip to the creek, hidden in the woods behind our house, felt like the perfect way to channel their energy. I hoped for a break from the constant reminders to “be nice” and “use your words instead of hitting.”
With Liam and Noah racing ahead, I struggled to keep up. I paused for a moment, reminiscing about the countless hours I spent exploring my own neighborhood, either solo or with friends. At just 6 years old, we were starting to let Liam play outside alone for brief spells. In this era of hyper-vigilant parenting, it felt almost wrong. My husband and I found ourselves peeking out the window at him every few minutes, even though we had enjoyed much more freedom during our childhoods. But two kindergartners wandering the woods unsupervised—one of them not even mine? I hesitated and decided to follow.
Swatting away the tiny mosquitoes that seemed to have appeared overnight, I trailed behind the boys. My anxiety, heightened from mediating their squabbles, eased as I absorbed the sights and sounds of the creek, filled with vibrant ferns and the gentle rush of water.
Liam carefully waded across the stream while Noah balanced himself on a fallen log that connected both banks. I held my breath, picturing the possibility of them tumbling into the shallow, murky water. “Be careful, guys!” I called out.
“Hey, Liam!” a girl’s voice echoed through the trees. We turned to see a fifth-grader from the neighborhood, accompanied by her younger sister, descending the hill. Liam and Noah quickly joined them.
Now, all four kids were on the opposite bank. I glanced down at my shoes, regretting my choice not to wear boots. Should I cross the creek to keep an eye on them? I could envision my parents following me on similar adventures, which made me chuckle. Though strong-willed, Liam was also cautious, much like I was at his age. I decided to stay put, as long as I could still see them.
As I looked around, I often pondered how fortunate my kids were to grow up alongside a creek surrounded by woods. It made me smile to think about how vast and magical the woods must appear to them. I recalled the hours I spent exploring what felt like an enormous forest between my childhood home and my brother’s best friend’s house. As an adult driving through my old neighborhood, I could hardly believe that it was just a small collection of trees.
“Hey, do you want to see a dead raccoon?” I heard one of the girls exclaim.
The words jolted me from my thoughts. “Uh, no, no, no!” I shouted, but the boys were already following the girls.
“Well, we’re not sure if it’s dead or not. It might just be hurt,” the older girl explained.
“Hey, I don’t think—” I began, but no one was paying attention. I momentarily envisioned a sick, rabid raccoon lurking to attack my son. But realistically, it was more likely that it was just dead. The boys dashed off after the girls, and I trailed behind from the opposite bank, concerned about the potential emotional impact of witnessing a deceased animal on my sensitive son.
“Liam!” I yelled. “Come back!”
But they were already there. I could either try to leap across the creek and block Liam from seeing the animal or let him experience this small rite of passage. After all, seeing a dead creature with friends is a part of growing up, isn’t it?
When I was around eight, I wandered down my street alone when a motorcyclist sped by, tragically hitting my best friend’s cat. Though I was disturbed by the sight of the cat’s tail spinning from the impact, I was more intrigued that the cat had pooped. For weeks, my best friend and I reenacted the scene on my front lawn—one of us pretending to be the motorcyclist while the other acted out the aftermath.
Although I was unsure if I had made the right choice by allowing Liam to investigate the raccoon, I felt he would likely be fine. After all, I had only been moderately traumatized by my experience with my friend’s cat, and if Liam needed support, his school has a fantastic social worker—something I lacked during my childhood.
“Hey, it’s alive!” Liam called out, making his way back to me.
“Cool!” Noah shouted.
“How do you know?” the younger girl asked.
“Its eyes were open!” Liam exclaimed, brimming with excitement.
My heart swelled at his innocence. The older girl and I exchanged a knowing look. At ten, she likely understood that a lifeless animal with its eyes open was still dead. Suddenly, against the backdrop of the tall birch trees, Liam appeared so small.
“Do you want to see, Mom?” he asked, extending his hand to help me cross the creek. We had spotted deer and turkeys in our yard, but an inert raccoon was a brand-new thrill.
“That’s okay,” I replied, trying to maintain a neutral expression.
Before long, the girls headed back to their house, while Liam, Noah, and I made our way up the hill to ours.
“Hey, be gentle, boys!” I called out as they playfully swung sticks at each other.
“We’re just playing Star Wars, Mom,” Liam replied.
I sighed.
There’s much to be said for the freedom I enjoyed growing up in the late ’70s and ’80s. Outside with friends, we resolved conflicts independently, only returning home when a squabble escalated or someone fell off their bike. Yet, there’s also value in staying close to my children when possible. Today, I balanced proximity with the need to expose Liam to life’s tougher realities. I witnessed him navigate a creek and approach a potentially dead animal, yet he remained innocent enough to believe its open eyes indicated it was just relaxing.
I won’t always be by my kids’ side as they explore the woods or the world, but today I was there, and I’m grateful for that.
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Summary
This article reflects on the balance of allowing children to explore their environment while maintaining a watchful presence. It emphasizes the importance of letting kids experience life’s realities, such as encountering a dead animal while also cherishing their innocence. The narrative highlights personal memories and draws parallels between past and present parenting styles.