Updated: Aug. 12, 2015
Originally Published: June 4, 2015
“Absolutely,” I replied, as Ethan slipped on his rain boots. The boys had been at each other’s throats since they returned from school, so a trip to the creek nestled in the woods behind our home seemed like the perfect solution to release their pent-up energy. I secretly hoped to avoid saying, “Be nice, please,” or “Remember to use your words,” for a while.
Ethan and Lucas raced ahead while I tried to keep pace. For a moment, I paused, reminiscing about all those carefree days spent exploring my childhood neighborhood—often alone or with friends.
At just 6 years old, we are beginning to let Ethan venture outside by himself for short stretches. In this age of hyper-vigilant parenting, it feels almost rebellious. My partner and I sneak glances out the window every few minutes, despite having enjoyed significantly more freedom as children. But two young boys in the woods alone, especially one who isn’t mine? Naturally, I followed them.
Swatting away the pesky mosquitoes that seemed to have emerged overnight, I trailed behind the boys. My nerves, frayed from refereeing their squabbles, calmed as I took in the lush ferns and the gentle rush of the creek.
Ethan waded through the water to the other side while Lucas scuttled across a fallen log that connected the two banks. I held my breath, picturing one of them tumbling into the shallow, muddy water. “Be careful, boys!” I called out.
Suddenly, a girl’s voice rang out, “Hey, Ethan!” We all turned to see a fifth grader from the neighborhood, with her younger sister trailing behind. Ethan and Lucas dashed over to join them.
Now, the four kids were all on the opposite side of the creek. I glanced down at my shoes, wishing I’d worn something sturdier. Should I cross and keep an eye on them? I imagined my own parents following me on similar adventures, and stifled a laugh. While Ethan is strong-willed, he shares my cautious nature. I opted to stay on this side of the creek as long as I could keep them in sight.
Looking around, I often find myself marveling at how fortunate my children are to grow up alongside a creek surrounded by acres of woods. It made me smile to think about how vast the woods must seem to them. I recalled the countless hours I spent exploring what I thought was a massive forest between my childhood home and my brother’s best friend’s house. Now, as an adult driving by, I realize it was just a cluster of trees.
“Hey, do you want to see a dead raccoon?” I heard one of the girls say.
The words jolted me out of 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 replied.
“Hey, I don’t think … ” I started, but it was too late. My imagination went wild, picturing a rabid raccoon lying in wait to attack my son. More likely, it was just dead. The boys scampered after the girls, and I followed from the other bank, worried about the emotional scar this encounter might leave on my sensitive son.
“Ethan!” I yelled. “Come back!”
But they were already there. I could either attempt to leap across the creek to block Ethan from seeing the raccoon or allow him this little “Stand By Me” moment. Isn’t encountering a dead animal with friends a rite of passage? When I was about 8, I was walking down my street alone when a motorcyclist sped by and struck my best friend’s cat. Although disturbed by the sight, I was mostly fascinated that the cat had pooped. For weeks, my friend and I reenacted the scene dramatically in my front yard.
Though I still wasn’t sure if I’d made the right call letting Ethan check out the raccoon, I figured he would probably be fine. After all, witnessing the death of my friend’s cat only moderately traumatized me. And if Ethan needed support, his school has a fantastic social worker—something I lacked back then.
“Hey, it’s alive!” Ethan shouted, making his way back to me.
“Cool!” Lucas exclaimed.
“How do you know?” the younger girl asked.
“Its eyes were open!” Ethan replied excitedly. My heart swelled at his innocence. The older girl and I exchanged a quick glance. At 10, she surely understood that a still raccoon with open eyes was, in fact, dead. Suddenly, next to the tall birch trees, Ethan appeared so small.
“Do you want to see, Mom?” he asked, extending his hand to help me cross the creek. We’d seen deer and turkeys in our yard, but an inert raccoon seemed like an exciting new adventure.
“That’s okay,” I replied, trying not to grimace.
Shortly after, the girls headed up the hill to their house while Ethan, Lucas, and I made our way up the opposite hill to ours. “Hey, be gentle, boys!” I called as they batted sticks at each other.
“We’re just playing Star Wars, Mom!” Ethan said.
I sighed. There’s a lot to be said for the freedom I had growing up in the late ’70s and ’80s. Outside with friends, we learned to negotiate and resolve disputes ourselves, only rushing home when things got out of hand or someone scraped a knee.
However, there’s also immense value in staying close to my kids when I can. Today, I found a balance. I remained nearby while also allowing Ethan to face some of life’s harsher truths. I witnessed him confidently navigate a creek and venture forth to see a possibly dead animal, yet he was still innocent enough to believe its open eyes meant it was just lounging.
I won’t always be there when my kids explore the woods or the world beyond, but today I was, and for that, I’m grateful.
Summary
In this reflective piece, Jamie shares her experience of allowing her son Ethan and his friend Lucas to explore the woods and a creek near their home. As the boys venture out, Jamie wrestles with the balance of giving them freedom while keeping a watchful eye. The story highlights the joys and challenges of parenting in today’s world, revealing how moments of exploration can lead to valuable life lessons, even when they involve encounters with the unexpected.