“Absolutely,” I replied, as Ethan was already slipping into his rubber boots. The boys had been bickering non-stop since their arrival home, so a trip to the creek nestled in the woods nearby seemed like the perfect antidote. I hoped to avoid repeating phrases like “Be nice, please,” or “Use your words instead of hitting,” for a bit.
Ethan and Leo dashed ahead, leaving me to catch up. I paused for a moment, reflecting on the hours I spent exploring my childhood neighborhood, either alone or with friends. At the age of 6, we are just beginning to allow Ethan some unsupervised outdoor time, and in this era of overprotective parenting, it feels almost rebellious. My partner and I sneak glances out the window every few minutes, despite having enjoyed far more freedom in our own childhoods. But two young boys in the woods alone—one of whom isn’t even mine? I followed them closely.
As I brushed away the pesky mosquitoes that seemed to have appeared overnight, my nerves, frayed from refereeing their earlier disputes, began to calm as I absorbed the sights of the budding ferns and the gentle rush of the creek. Ethan waded through the water while Leo carefully navigated a fallen log that spanned the creek. I held my breath, imagining the worst as I shouted, “Be careful, you two!”
Just then, a girl’s voice called out, “Hey, Ethan!” We all scanned the woods and spotted a fifth-grader from the neighborhood coming down the hill, her younger sister trailing behind. Ethan and Leo hurried over to join them.
Now, all four kids were on the opposite side of the creek. I glanced down at my shoes, wishing I had chosen boots. As I watched them run around under the budding trees, I hesitated. Should I cross the creek to keep an eye on them? I pictured my parents trailing after me during my own childhood adventures, which made me stifle a giggle. Although Ethan is strong-willed, he shares my cautious nature. I decided to remain on this side of the creek, as long as I could still see them.
Looking around, I pondered how fortunate my kids are to grow up alongside a creek surrounded by several acres of woods. I smiled, recalling my own childhood explorations and how expansive the woods had seemed back then. As an adult, those same woods appeared to be just a patch of trees.
“Hey, do you guys want to see a dead raccoon?” one of the girls said, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Uh, no, no, no,” I shouted across the creek, but the boys were already following them.
“Well, we’re not sure if it’s dead or not. It might just be hurt,” the older girl remarked. I wanted to intervene, but no one was listening. I briefly envisioned a sickly, rabid raccoon lurking, ready to attack my son. However, it was more likely it was just lifeless. As the boys scampered after the girls, I worried about the potential emotional fallout of seeing a dead animal, especially for my sensitive son.
“Ethan!” I called. “Come back!”
But they were already there. I could either leap across the creek and shield Ethan from witnessing the raccoon or let him have this little adventure, a rite of passage much like my own childhood experiences. I recalled when I was about 8 years old, walking down my street alone when a motorcyclist tragically killed my best friend’s cat. Though shocked, I was also fascinated by the aftermath. For weeks afterward, my friend and I reenacted the scene in dramatic detail, complete with a spinning tail.
While I was unsure whether allowing Ethan to see the raccoon was the right choice, I was confident he would be okay. After all, I had only been moderately traumatized by my childhood event. And if Ethan needed support, his school has excellent resources, unlike what I had during my early years.
“Hey, it’s alive!” Ethan shouted as he returned to my side.
“Cool!” Leo exclaimed.
“How do you know?” the younger girl asked.
“Its eyes were open!” Ethan replied with excitement. My heart swelled at his innocence. The fifth-grader and I exchanged knowing looks; at 10, she probably understood that a motionless raccoon with open eyes was likely deceased. Suddenly, against the backdrop of the tall birch trees, Ethan appeared so small.
“Do you want to see, Mom?” Ethan asked, extending his hand to help me across the creek. While we had seen deer and turkeys in our yard, a dead raccoon was a thrilling discovery.
“That’s okay,” I said, making an effort not to grimace.
Soon after, the girls headed back up the hill to their home, while Ethan, Leo, and I climbed the opposite hill toward ours. “Hey, be gentle, boys!” I hollered as they playfully swung sticks at each other.
“We’re just playing Star Wars, Mom,” Ethan replied.
I sighed. There’s plenty to be said for the freedom I experienced growing up in the ’70s and ’80s. We resolved our own conflicts and only returned home when things escalated or someone got hurt.
Yet, there’s also merit in sticking close to my children when I can. Today, I found a balance. I stayed nearby while also resisting the urge to shield Ethan from the harsher aspects of life. I witnessed him confidently cross a creek and venture forth to see a potentially dead animal, yet he remained innocent enough to think its open eyes indicated it was merely resting.
I won’t always be there when my kids explore the woods or the world beyond, but today I was, and I’m grateful for that.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, a mother navigates the delicate balance of giving her children freedom while maintaining a watchful eye. As her son explores the woods with friends, she grapples with the instincts to protect him from life’s harsher realities while recognizing the importance of allowing him to experience them. Ultimately, she finds comfort in the moments spent together, understanding that she won’t always be there, but cherishing the present.
Keyphrase: Parenting and Exploration
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