Parenting
The rambunctious behavior began in preschool. It was as if the playground had transformed into a war zone, filled with children play-fighting and pretending to shoot each other with imaginary weapons. One day, my eldest son’s preschool teacher called us in for a discussion. It turned out that our sweet boy was one of the instigators, turning his sandwiches into revolver-shaped bites and leading his classmates in epic lunchtime battles. We reassured her that we had no video games, no toy guns, and did not permit violent play at home. Naturally, we promised she would speak to him about it.
She responded calmly, “I understand, but consider giving him some freedom for that type of play.” We were taken aback. “You mean we should let him play with toy guns? Shoot at us?” she affirmed. She explained that allowing some creative expression, as long as it didn’t lead to harm, could be beneficial.
Though my son’s fascination with guns waned, a peculiar blend of aggression and a thirst for adventure emerged in both my boys as they transitioned into their teenage years. Their roughhousing escalated with their friends, resulting in teasing, playful punches, and daring stunts like jumping off rocks or climbing walls. My eldest, Leo, once picked up his younger brother during a playful tussle and accidentally dropped him, leading to a broken arm—the second for that child. On another occasion, a friend sprayed a chemical into Leo’s eyes, and they once experimented with fireworks and cologne in the living room.
In one particularly reckless episode, the boys and their friends decided to throw a stick at a wasp’s nest, leading to predictable consequences—being chased and stung. One boy was so incensed he returned the next day for “revenge,” which resulted in a chaotic scene that could have ended worse. Fortunately, after some ice packs and Benadryl, we managed to avoid any serious injuries.
As they took up skateboarding, the frequency of accidents soared. Each mishap fueled my anxious imagination, conjuring scenarios of catastrophic injuries: a misplaced wrestling hold resulting in a broken neck, cars zooming by while they attempted new tricks, falls from roofs or tree branches, leading to dire consequences.
“I’m not ready for teenagers,” I confided to my friend Mark one afternoon. We were floating in the community pool, while my husband showcased his old gymnastics skills with flips off the diving board. Meanwhile, my sons and their friends were engaged in a chaotic water fight, arguing about the best way to aim water guns. “It has to hurt, or it isn’t fun,” they insisted.
“I just can’t wrap my head around this phase,” I told Mark, who was happily navigating the elementary school years with his gentle, music-loving son. “Nothing in my past has prepared me for this. I need to find a new approach to calm them down.”
Mark, a good listener, pondered my words before responding. “You only need one thing. One word.” I was intrigued—perhaps he had a profound insight to share. “What is it?”
“Zoloft.”
“Medicate the kids? Very funny.”
“No, not the kids. You.”
He was right—not necessarily about medication, but about my need to relax. Trying to curb my boys’ exuberance was as futile as training my cats to obey. I had to remind myself that they were just energetic kids. The real issue was my background; I hail from a family of gentle musicians, not athletes, and I found myself constantly dealing with injuries. During an intense two-week span, we faced two broken bones, a mild concussion, and a significant set of stitches. In the ER, a doctor mistook us for a family of medical professionals due to our frequent visits.
What drives such physical behavior and risk-taking? It’s a straightforward formula: athletic enthusiasm, boundless energy, and testosterone, paired with an underdeveloped prefrontal cortex. My husband not only tolerates this activity but also participates, often play-fighting with the boys and sustaining injuries while cycling. He believes watching the FailArmy YouTube channel, which shows failed stunts and injuries, teaches them what to avoid, enhancing their critical thinking.
Realizing I couldn’t prevent my sons from engaging in their preferred activities, I shifted my perspective: why not promote safety through preparation? I began discussing protective gear with them. Leo took a first aid course, and I programmed the ER’s number into my phone. I learned about common injuries like sprains and fractures, and we established a well-stocked box for braces, slings, and even crutches. This proactive approach diminished the anxious crash reels running in my mind. Although I sometimes wished they’d spend more time indoors practicing music, I’ve come to accept their need for adventure and the freedom to explore their passions.
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In summary, navigating the challenges of parenting teenage boys requires patience, understanding, and a proactive approach to safety. While the roughhousing and adventures can lead to injuries, equipping them with knowledge and protective measures can help mitigate risks and allow them to enjoy their youthful exuberance.