“Absolutely,” I replied as Liam was already pulling on his sneakers. The boys had been at each other’s throats since their return from school. A trip to the creek, hidden in the woods behind our home, felt like the perfect solution to release some of that pent-up energy. I was hoping for a moment of peace without having to remind them to “be kind” or “use your words instead of arguing.”
Liam and Noah dashed ahead, and I struggled to keep pace. For a brief moment, I paused, reflecting on the countless hours I spent exploring my own neighborhood as a child, often alone or with friends. At just 6 years old, we are starting to allow Liam some independence outside, even if it feels a bit rebellious in today’s world of hyper-vigilant parenting. My partner and I peek out the window every few minutes, despite having enjoyed far more freedom in our own youth. But two kindergartners alone in the woods—one of whom isn’t even mine? I decided to follow.
Swatting away the tiny mosquitoes that seemed to appear out of nowhere, I trailed behind the boys. The tension from mediating their disputes eased as I absorbed the lush greenery and the soothing sounds of the creek.
Liam waded through the water while Noah carefully navigated a fallen log that spanned the creek. I held my breath, envisioning my son tumbling into the muddy water. “Be careful, guys!” I called out.
“Hey, Liam!” a girl’s voice rang out. We scanned the woods and spotted a fifth-grader from the neighborhood approaching, her younger sister trailing behind. Liam and Noah hurried to join them.
Now, all four kids were on the far side of the creek. I glanced down at my shoes, regretting not wearing waterproof boots. I watched them play beneath the budding trees. Should I cross over to shadow them? I imagined my parents following me on my own childhood adventures and couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. Though Liam is strong-willed, he shares my cautious nature, so I decided to stay put as long as I could still see them.
Looking around, I often ponder how fortunate my kids are to grow up near a creek surrounded by vast woods. It brought a smile to my face, remembering how enormous those woods felt to me as a child. As an adult, driving by my old neighborhood, I was surprised to realize that the forest was merely a collection of trees on a few lots.
“Hey, do you guys want to see a dead raccoon?” one of the girls called out, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Uh, no, no, no,” I shouted across the creek, but the boys were already intrigued.
“Well, we’re not sure if it’s dead or not. It might just be hurt,” the older girl explained.
“Hey, I don’t think … ” I began, but they weren’t listening. I briefly imagined a rabid raccoon lurking, ready to attack my son, though it was far more likely it was simply deceased. The boys dashed after the girls, and I followed at a distance, anxious about the potential emotional impact of witnessing a dead animal on my sensitive boy.
“Liam!” I yelled, “Come back!”
But they were already there. I could jump across the creek to prevent Liam from seeing the raccoon or allow him this little adventure reminiscent of Stand By Me. Isn’t encountering a dead animal with friends a rite of passage?
When I was about 8, I walked down my street alone and witnessed a motorcyclist hit and kill my best friend’s cat. While the gruesome sight disturbed me, I was mostly fascinated by the cat’s tail spinning from the impact. For weeks, my friend and I reenacted the scene on my front lawn, one of us playing the motorcyclist and the other mimicking the cat’s unfortunate fate.
Though I was unsure whether allowing Liam to see the raccoon was the right choice, I believed he would be okay. After all, I emerged relatively unscathed from witnessing my best friend’s cat’s tragic end. And if Liam struggled with it, his school has a fantastic social worker—something I wish I had during my elementary years.
“Hey, it’s alive!” Liam exclaimed, making his way back to me.
“Cool!” Noah shouted.
“How do you know?” the younger girl asked.
“Its eyes were open!” Liam replied, bubbling with excitement.
My heart swelled at his innocence. The fifth-grader and I exchanged a knowing glance. At 10, she likely understood that a motionless, open-eyed raccoon signaled death. Liam looked so small against the backdrop of the towering birch trees.
“Do you want to see, Mom?” he asked, extending his hand to help me cross the creek. We had seen deer and turkeys in our yard, but a lifeless raccoon was a new thrill.
“That’s okay,” I managed, trying not to cringe.
Soon, the girls headed back up the hill to their home, while Liam, Noah, and I made our way up the opposite hillside toward ours.
“Hey, be gentle, boys!” I called as they playfully swatted sticks at each other.
“We’re just playing Star Wars, Mom,” Liam replied.
I sighed, reminiscing about my own childhood in the late ’70s and ’80s. Outside with my friends, we navigated our conflicts, returning home only when skirmishes escalated or a bike crash left us scraped and bruised.
There is undeniable value in staying close to my children when possible. Today, I found a balance, remaining nearby while also resisting the urge to shield Liam from the harsher realities of life. I witnessed him confidently cross a creek and venture off to see a possibly dead animal, yet he still believed its open eyes meant it was merely resting.
I understand I won’t always be there when my kids explore the woods or the wider world, but today I was present, and I’m grateful for that.
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