“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.” –Albert Camus
As a child, I was fortunate enough to have parents who allowed me the freedom to dream, create, and play independently. Whether they recognized the value of unstructured outdoor play or simply needed a moment of peace, I cherished that space.
One cherished memory takes me back to a playground near my father’s childhood home in Georgia. We had a metal merry-go-round that became the centerpiece of our wild game, “flying monkeys.” The objective? See who could leap the farthest as it spun.
How to play flying monkeys:
- Squat in the center of a vintage merry-go-round, roughly the size of a Jazzercise trampoline.
- Invite your friends to spin it as fast as possible.
- When they shout “GO!” attempt to rise, defying the centripetal force that pulls you back.
- As you approach the edge, centrifugal force will launch you off in a chaotic tumble.
- Try to avoid the metal animals meant for sitting and leap as far as you can.
If I’ve captured the spirit correctly, it sounds as improbable as it was. Most times, we either tumbled off immediately or found ourselves awkwardly flopping halfway, relying on the spinners to slow it down. Nevertheless, we always ended up in fits of laughter.
After our flying monkey antics, we would explore the dense wild surrounding us. The kudzu vines and poison ivy created a maze, but the creek remained untouched. We’d march joyfully to the water, where our true adventures began. Sometimes, we’d mold red clay from the bank into shapes that hardened into odd forms—at best, replicas of gravel and at worst, dried dog droppings. We leaped from bank to bank, splashing in the cool, shallow water. When we grew tired of trying to catch elusive water spiders, we would venture through the culvert into the shaded unknown on the other side.
The thrill of stepping into that slippery tunnel is etched in my memory. I’d happily relive the fears, pressures, and exhilaration of those moments. I remember how the temperature dropped as I moved from the blazing sun into the cool, damp tunnel. My toes gripped the metal rungs as I cautiously made my way through; it felt like an eternity until we emerged on the opposite side. Once we overcame that challenge, we explored the stream further, fueled by the adrenaline of our survival. The details of what lay beyond that culvert have faded, but the joy of adventure was all the reward I needed.
Reflecting on those days, I realize my father rarely checked on us. His ability to grant us independence is something I appreciate deeply. He likely thought we couldn’t get into much trouble in our neighborhood. After all, it wasn’t like we were embarking on a five-mile trek into the wilderness, yet to my ten-year-old self, it felt thrillingly risky.
Looking even further back, my parents experienced even greater freedom. My father fondly recalls riding his bike to school as a first grader, crossing busy intersections—something I can’t imagine allowing my own children to do. My grandmother shares stories of building huts with her siblings in vacant lots and having the freedom to spend the night in them without fear of scorpions or strangers lurking nearby.
As I reflect on the limited circle of trust I currently extend to my kids, it’s mind-boggling to think we once granted such freedom. Even as my own allowances shrink, I’m determined to raise free-range children who can enjoy some semblance of the independence I once had.
Recently, I enrolled my kids in the summer camp I attended as a child, where I’ve returned as a counselor for the past two summers. The anticipation of those hot summer days provides me with hope to endure the relentless cold of this New England winter. However, in the nearly ten years since my last stint as a counselor, the culture has shifted toward helicopter parenting. Nowadays, kids are expected to report their exact whereabouts during any “free” time, effectively robbing them of the very freedom I cherished.
I can only assume the camp staff has faced numerous parent complaints; today’s parents seem to expect constant monitoring of their children—even at camp. But not me. I revel in the thought of my kids getting “lost” in a mud pit or wandering by a creek. So, as a counselor, I push boundaries where I can. Although I must secure permissions from multiple people, gather a cell phone and emergency supplies, and create a list of attendees, I still lead groups of kids into the wild for creek adventures.
To them, it’s just as exhilarating as it was for me over twenty years ago. Perhaps what they don’t know can’t weigh them down. After all, what happens at camp stays at camp. For more insights on raising independent kids, check out this engaging blog post on nurturing free-range kids.
In summary, while the landscape of childhood independence has shifted, it’s crucial to carve out space for our children to explore, learn, and engage with the world around them. By fostering a spirit of adventure, we can help them grow into confident, resilient individuals.
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