The roughhousing began back in preschool. The playground quickly transformed into a battleground where kids engaged in mock fights and imaginary shootouts. One day, my eldest son’s preschool teacher called us in for a discussion. It turned out our little angel was leading the charge, creatively fashioning his sandwiches into gun-like shapes and pretending to take down his lunch buddies. We assured her that our home was free from video games, firearms, or any form of violent play. Naturally, we’d address the behavior.
“Yes, I understand,” she replied calmly. “But I encourage you to allow him some freedom for that kind of play.”
We were taken aback. “You suggest we let him play with toy guns? Engage in shootouts?”
“Yes,” she affirmed. She explained that some room for expression, as long as it didn’t lead to real harm, could be beneficial.
While my son’s fascination with guns eventually waned, a troubling blend of aggression and risk-taking emerged in both of my boys as they transitioned into their teenage years. Their playtime escalated to new heights of chaos. They began teasing and playfully hitting each other, leaping off rocks, and scaling walls. One day, during a bout of roughhousing, my eldest, Jake, accidentally dropped his younger brother, Sam, resulting in yet another broken arm—the second for Sam.
On another occasion, a friend’s son sprayed a chemical into Jake’s eyes, and then there was that infamous experiment involving fireworks and Axe cologne in our living room.
One day, my boys and their friends decided to throw sticks at a wasp’s nest, leading to a predictable chase and a few stings. One boy, enraged by the incident, returned the next day for “revenge,” which, needless to say, didn’t end well—though, depending on your point of view, it might have been amusing. Thankfully, we avoided a hospital visit, and a few ice packs along with some Benadryl calmed the situation.
Then came skateboarding, and that’s when the injuries really piled up. Each incident ignited my darkest imaginings, creating a mental crash reel of possible disasters: a misplaced wrestling hold resulting in a broken neck (leading to lifelong paralysis), a speeding car taking out my child while attempting a skateboard trick (resulting in death or paralysis), or a fall from a roof, tree, or skateboard ramp (you get the idea).
“I’m not ready for teenagers,” I confided to my friend Mark one afternoon. We were lounging in our community pool while I watched my husband at the diving board, reliving his glory days as a gymnast with impressive flips. Meanwhile, my two sons were engaging in an intense water gun battle, having just concluded a bizarre debate with me about why aiming for the eyes was crucial for maximum fun.
“I just don’t get this stage,” I told Mark, who was happily navigating the calmer waters of grade school with his own gentle, music-loving son. “Nothing in my experience has prepared me for this. I need a new approach. I need to find a way to calm them down.”
Mark listened thoughtfully, then paused before speaking. “You know what you need? One word.”
Intrigued, I eagerly awaited his wisdom, hoping for a nugget of insight that might shed light on my situation.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Zoloft.”
“Ah, so we’re medicating the kids? Hilarious.”
“No, not the kids. You.”
He was right—not necessarily about the medication, but about needing to relax. Trying to curb my boys’ rough play was like attempting to herd cats. I reminded myself to chill out; they were just energetic kids. What was my issue? I grew up in a family of gentle musicians, more comfortable with a lullaby than a wrestling match, yet here I was, constantly nursing injuries.
During one chaotic two-week span, we racked up two broken bones, a mild concussion, and a hefty set of stitches. In the ER, while waiting for one child to get a cast, a doctor mistakenly thought I was there for work. “Oh, you’re here with your family, but you work in the hospital, right?” Wrong.
What drives such physicality and risk-taking? It’s a straightforward equation: athletic energy mixed with excess vigor, a healthy dose of testosterone, and a lacking prefrontal cortex. My husband not only embraces this chaos but actively participates, engaging in playful tussles with the boys and injuring himself while cycling. He even enjoys watching the FailArmy YouTube channel, which features compilations of failed stunts that often end in injuries. While I worry it inspires reckless behavior, he insists it teaches them what not to do and sharpens their critical thinking skills as they analyze what went wrong.
It became clear that stopping my boys from their antics was unrealistic, so I shifted my perspective: why not focus on safety through preparation? I’ve emphasized the importance of protective gear, and Jake has taken a first-aid course. The emergency room number is now saved on my phone, and I’ve educated myself on sprains, fractures, concussions, and compartment syndrome. I can now assess whether a cut requires stitches or glue. We even have a box stocked with braces, slings, splints, and ace bandages. Ridiculously, we own a set of crutches.
Preparing for these real consequences seems to prevent the crash reels from playing in my head. While I sometimes wish my boys would stay inside practicing music, I’ve finally learned to give them the freedom to do what they clearly love and perhaps need to do.
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Summary
This article explores the chaotic and often alarming experiences of raising teenage boys who engage in rough play and risk-taking behaviors. The author shares personal anecdotes, reflecting on the challenges of parenting during this tumultuous phase and the journey towards understanding and embracing their children’s active lifestyles.
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