The roughhousing began in preschool. Suddenly, the playground was alive with the sounds of children pretending to engage in battle, wielding invisible weapons. One day, however, our oldest son’s preschool teacher summoned us for a chat. We learned that our sweet boy was leading the charge, transforming his sandwiches into gun-shaped bites and staging mock shootouts at the lunch table. We assured her that we had no video games, no firearms, and we strictly prohibited violent play at home. Naturally, our son would be reprimanded and taught otherwise.
“Yes, I understand,” she replied calmly. “But consider giving him some freedom for that type of play.”
We were taken aback. “You mean we should allow him to use toy guns? Shoot at us?”
“Yes,” she affirmed. She explained that some degree of playful expression that didn’t lead to actual harm could be beneficial.
While my son’s fascination with guns eventually waned, both of our boys developed a curious aggression and a taste for risk as they entered their teens. The rough play intensified. They began teasing and lightly punching each other, leaping off rocks, and climbing walls. My oldest, Noah, once hoisted his brother during a playful moment only to drop him, resulting in his second broken arm. One night, a friend accidentally sprayed a chemical into Noah’s eyes. Then there was the infamous incident with fireworks and Axe cologne in the living room.
Another occasion saw my boys and their friends attempting to throw a stick at a wasp nest, inevitably provoking a swarm. One boy was so irate he returned the next day for “revenge.” The outcome was predictably chaotic, but fortunately, no one required hospitalization after a few ice packs and some Benadryl.
As they took up skateboarding, the injuries escalated. Each mishap fueled my anxious imagination, conjuring a nightmarish reel of accidents: a misplaced wrestling move leading to a broken neck, speeding cars colliding with my children as they attempted daring tricks (with potentially fatal consequences), or falls from rooftops, trees, or ramps.
“I’m not ready for teenagers,” I confessed to my friend Mark one afternoon. We were floating in our community pool, watching my husband at the deep end, reliving his glory days as a gymnast with impressive flips off the diving board. Meanwhile, my sons and other teens were engaged in a chaotic water gun battle. They had just argued with me about the merits of aiming for the eyes during their water skirmishes.
“It’s got to hurt,” they insisted, “or it isn’t any fun.”
“I just don’t get this phase,” I admitted to Mark, who was still enjoying the calm of elementary school with his gentle, music-loving son. “Nothing in my experience has prepared me for this. I need to change my approach. I need to tone them down.”
Mark, always a good listener, paused before responding. “One thing,” he said, “All you need. One word.”
My curiosity peaked. Mark is a clever guy; surely he had some wisdom that could offer clarity. “What’s the word?”
“Zoloft.”
“Right, medicate the kids. Real funny.”
“No. Not the kids. You.”
He was, of course, correct—not necessarily about medication, but about relaxing. Trying to curb my children’s exuberance was like herding cats. I reassured myself: they’re just active. What’s my issue? My concern stemmed from coming from a family of gentle musicians, more at ease with lullabies than roughhousing, while I found myself frequently treating injuries. During one chaotic fortnight, we faced two broken bones, a mild concussion, and a hefty set of stitches. In the emergency room, while waiting for a cast, a doctor mistakenly assumed I was at work there.
What drives this physicality and thirst for adventure? It’s a simple equation: athletic enthusiasm combined with boundless energy, boosted by testosterone and lacking the moderating influence of the prefrontal cortex. My husband not only embraces this energy but joins in, often engaging in playful roughhousing and sustaining injuries while cycling. He enjoys watching the FailArmy YouTube channel with the boys, which showcases outrageous stunt failures, often resulting in serious injury. I worry it fuels their ideas, but he argues it teaches them what to avoid and enhances their critical thinking skills.
Since it’s impossible to stop my boys from pursuing their interests, I began to see the value in fostering preparedness for safety. I’ve lectured them on protective gear, and Noah has completed a first aid course. I now have the ER’s number saved on my phone, and I’ve educated myself about sprains, fractures, concussions, and how to assess if a wound needs stitches or glue. We even have a dedicated box for braces, slings, splints, and ace bandages, and absurdly enough, a set of crutches. This preparation somehow eases the fearful visions that used to haunt me. While I sometimes wish they would spend more time inside practicing music, I’ve learned to give them the freedom to pursue what they love and perhaps need to explore.
In conclusion, navigating the wild world of teenage boys can be a daunting journey filled with challenges and unexpected moments. However, by fostering a sense of preparedness and embracing their energy, we can find balance in the chaos.