As I observed my son, Ethan, eagerly putting on his rain boots, I agreed to their adventure. The boys had been bickering since their return from school, and a jaunt to the nearby creek seemed like an ideal way to channel their energy. I hoped to avoid the repeated phrases of “Be gentle” and “Use your words, please,” if only for a little while.
Ethan and his friend, Noah, dashed ahead, while I made an effort to catch up. I paused briefly, reflecting on the countless hours I spent exploring my childhood neighborhood, either alone or with friends. At six years old, Ethan was just starting to enjoy some independence outdoors. In today’s world of intensive parenting, this felt almost forbidden. My partner and I found ourselves peering out the window every few minutes, despite having relished much more freedom as children ourselves. But two kindergartners in the woods alone, one of them not even mine? I decided to follow them.
As I swatted away the pesky mosquitoes that had appeared overnight, I felt my anxiety dissipate amidst the lush ferns and the gentle flow of the creek. Ethan waded across the water, while Noah expertly navigated a fallen log. I held my breath, imagining the potential for a tumble into the shallow, muddy creek. “Be careful, guys!” I called out.
“Hey, Ethan!” a voice rang out. We turned to see a neighborhood fifth-grader approaching with her younger sister. Both boys quickly joined them on the opposite bank of the creek. As I glanced at my shoes, wishing I had chosen boots, I contemplated whether I should cross and shadow the kids. I could picture my own parents trailing after me during my youthful escapades, which made me smile. Even though Ethan is spirited, he is also quite cautious—traits I share. I decided to stay put as long as I could see them.
I admired the surroundings, often reflecting on how fortunate my children are to grow up near a creek surrounded by expansive woods. I smiled at the thought of how vast the forest must appear to them. I recalled my own childhood adventures, seemingly lost in a forest between my home and my brother’s best friend’s house. Now, as an adult driving through my old neighborhood, the “forest” appeared to be just a cluster of trees.
Suddenly, I heard one of the girls exclaim, “Hey, do you want to see a dead raccoon?” The words jolted me from my thoughts. “Uh, no, no, no,” I shouted across the creek, but the boys were already intrigued and following the girls.
“Well, we’re not sure if it’s dead or not. It might just be injured,” the older girl added. My mind raced with images of a rabid raccoon lurking nearby. More likely, it was simply lifeless, yet I worried about the potential emotional impact on my sensitive son. “Ethan!” I called. “Come back!”
They were already on their way. I faced a choice: leap across the creek to prevent Ethan from encountering the possibly dead raccoon or let him experience this moment like a scene from Stand By Me. Wasn’t witnessing a dead animal with friends a rite of passage?
When I was around eight, I had my own shocking experience when a motorcyclist tragically hit my best friend’s cat. While I was disturbed by the sight, I was also captivated by the spectacle, leading to weeks of dramatic reenactments with my friend. Although I remained uncertain about allowing Ethan to see the raccoon, I hoped he would be okay. After all, I had survived the trauma of that day.
“Hey, it’s alive!” Ethan shouted excitedly as he returned to me. “Cool!” Noah chimed in. “How do you know?” the younger girl inquired. “Its eyes were open!” Ethan replied with enthusiasm. My heart swelled at his innocence, while the fifth-grader and I exchanged glances. At her age, she likely understood that a motionless animal with open eyes meant it was dead. Suddenly, against the backdrop of tall birch trees, Ethan appeared so small.
“Do you want to see, Mom?” Ethan asked, extending his hand to help me cross. We had seen deer and turkeys around our yard, but a lifeless raccoon was a new thrill. “That’s okay,” I replied, trying to keep my expression neutral.
Soon after, the girls headed back up their hill, while Ethan, Noah, and I made our way up ours. “Hey, be gentle, boys!” I called out as they playfully swatted at each other. “We’re just playing Star Wars, Mom,” Ethan responded.
There is much to be said for the freedom I experienced growing up in the late ’70s and ’80s. My friends and I navigated our outdoor adventures, only returning home when things escalated. Yet, there is also merit in remaining close to my children when possible. Today, I balanced the line between proximity and the necessity of exposing Ethan to life’s tougher realities. I witnessed his capability to cross a creek and venture off to see a potentially dead animal while remaining innocent enough to think it was merely resting.
I won’t always be present when my children venture into the woods or the wider world, but today, I was there, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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