My worst nightmare has finally come true. Our household has, seemingly overnight, reached a new level of parenthood: allowing small amounts of freedom and autonomy to our oldest. I fought it with everything I had, but realized I was making it about me and not doing what was best for him. Allow me to elaborate because, you know, that’s what I do here. Slowly, over the past few months, we ran some little experiments with our twelve-year-old. First, we let him go home after school instead of going to his after-school program, just to see how he handled it. I was a wreck. I made him text me when he got home. Oh yes, the phone. It was a gift for his last birthday, but it was all about me. If we were running these experiments, I needed him to have it. Then, last week, at the beginning of the last week of school, we let him ride his bike to school. I know this sounds like I’m being a crazy person (what else is new?), but it’s two and a half miles on a main road that has a 40 mph speed limit, but you know people do 50. We live on this same road and have many times thought about selling and buying something on a cul de sac so our kids could safely ride their bikes, but we just can’t seem to give up the back yard. Our back yard is dope. That’s right, I said that. Also, too many motorists are driving around with their faces in their phones. A problem we did not have as children. Cue the panic.
We’ve discussed my anxiety before. The trauma I carry. The amount of loved ones I’ve lost. My insane door locking. My freak out when the doorbell rings that it’s the police coming to tell me everyone is dead. When my husband isn’t home from work when I expect him and I have to sit on my hands so I don’t start calling hospitals. Knowing all this, I know you guys are aware of what it costs me to watch him head off on that two and a half mile trek with only another twelve year old boy for company. But it’s not about me.
I truly am in the camp that believes that, when it comes to giving kids freedom, age doesn’t matter as much as the actual person that each child is. All twelve year olds are not created equal. Mine is a good kid, not a troublemaker at school. Except for when his teachers don’t appreciate his sarcasm. He got that from me. Whoops. He’s smart, one of the smartest in his class. Bragging is not what I’m going for here, I’m just saying that we felt he deserved to do the things. If it helps at all, I don’t think I’ll feel comfortable letting my youngest ride his bike to school until he’s twenty-five.
So, things are getting real around here. The child is never home. He bikes to friends’ houses and to the town field to kick soccer balls around. Sometimes he forgets to text me when he gets there and I try not to become a hysterical mother. Deep breaths. Next school year, he will come home after school and be alone here until five or five-thirty. Yay, it’s like getting a raise! I can only trust that we’ve taught him the right things and he wears his helmet and doesn’t get up to stupid things with his friends. He will, of course, do stupid things. Bad decisions are a part of growing up. This particular kid usually learns pretty quickly. I hope that he doesn’t put himself in danger. But he will. And at this rate, just sitting in a classroom is dangerous, so what are we supposed to do? Lock our kids in the house until they’re eighteen? I won’t do that. But that little fucker better text me when he gets to school.
Let's Be Dramatic 