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I ‘ve enjoyed every word of the helicopter parents versus adventure-parents conversation, and while I am probably just echoing Liza’s great post of this morning, I’ll say that there’s a microversion of the heli-debate that isn’t about class or income or education. It goes like this: Just about every time my kids have made some huge developmental leap, it’s happened around their cousins or grandparents. Like the time I left my then-baby with my dad for a few hours while I ran to a doctor's’appointment. After about 45 minutes I dutifully called home to see how it was all going.
Me: How’s Coby?
My Dad: Oh he’s climbing up and down the stairs.
Me [flipping out]: He doesn’t know how to climb up and down the stairs
My Dad: He does now.
Like Emily B, I’ve been hugely influenced by Blessings of a Skinned Knee. It doesn’t incline me toward sending my kids out to roam the local creeks unescorted. But I am constantly aware that my boys really do have better adventures when I am waaaay out of range. That said, this Coby-stairs story is funny only because he didn't fall on his head and injure himself. Which makes me wonder whether the over-/underparenting calculus just comes down to blind luck.
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Believe me, Ellen, I probably practice better-safe-than-sorry parenting more than I preach it. I watch my oldest son the entire way if he so much as walks across the street to ask the neighbor kid to play (and we live on the world's quietest cul-de-sac). The fact that our subdivision spills out onto a windy country road is enough to make me want to move before he gets his driver's license (and I have my fingers crossed that the driving age will be 18 by the time he's 16). When you've spent nine months taking vitamins and shunning booze, sushi, and undercooked eggs so as not to harm the wee one you're carrying, when you've invested in car seats to keep them safe, and kept the baby in your room at night for months just so you can reach out and touch him to make sure he's all right when he's sleeping, you're not going to start letting him play in the street overnight.
If the last five-plus years have taught me anything, it's that parenting is actually just a series of agonizing decisions and dilemmas, from breast-feeding or formula? when the kids are infants all the way to when can they start dating? and what college can we afford and can they get in? when they're older. Some decisions come easily and some require much discussion with my husband and with friends who have kids the same age. One of the hardest things—and yet at the same time the most rewarding—is letting them take those steps toward independence: letting them play unattended in an upstairs playroom, letting them play outside by themselves. Someday soon, that will expand to visiting friends more than a few houses away and riding bikes beyond my sightline. Nobody wants their kid to be the next Etan Patz. We just had a terrible, terrible tragedy here in Cincinnati, where a 13-year-old girl was killed while jogging near her home. But, as Emily pointed out, abductions are extremely rare. Kids are far more likely to be injured in a car accident, or falling down at home, or stricken by a terrible disease. No matter what you do, there are risks. I want to foster independence in my kids, at age-appropriate levels, so that as they can grow they can make decisions that will keep them safe. For example, say I tried to shelter my kid from dating, driving a car, and any exposure to alcohol in high school. Something tells me his first trip home from college would see him driving drunk to introduce me to his pregnant girlfriend.
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Emily Y is right to be concerned. Though I was one before unwed mothers were a rising statistic, I don't recommend becoming a single mother by choice. Obviously having social standing, a college education, and a loving husband all make a big difference in the large bore challenges of raising children: assuring a secure environment, good education, and culturally uplifting activities. (Not to mention equipping them with GPS navigators or latitude homing devices as Abby suggests.)
As women, however, we share many experiences not limited to members of "our own middle- and upper-middle-class world" that Emily B describes. Economic assumptions aside, young, poor mothers are just as motivated to do the best they can for their offspring as the moms with manicured lawns or doorman buildings, and a well-heeled background, sadly, doesn't mean we will always remember to speak lovingly to our children when they disappoint us (as they are bound to occasionally), even under the best circumstances.
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Fear not, Bonnie, Emily, Ellen, and Rachael! No more need to worry about whether your teenage daughter is really over at her girlfriend's house on Saturday night or if your son makes it to soccer practice on time. Google is here to save the day with its new Latitude program, launched in February. Now you can pinpoint your kids, your friends, even your kids' friends at any given moment of the day (well, almost—they still have some kinks to work out). It's creepy, useful, and sort of irresistible all at the same time. Now if I could only get my boss to sync up so that I could always beat her to the office in the mornings ...
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Bonnie, your lovely, loving mea culpa raises what's for me a central conundrum of writing about parenting: audience. Do we write for our own middle- and upper-middle-class world? In which it's an easy call, to me, that helicopter parents pose a greater danger to kids than wandering the streets, or rather, the well-groomed sidewalks. Or are we writing to 22-year-old moms like your former self and to poor ones? Sometimes the message is the same. But often it's not, because the set of assumptions we're speaking to are very different. See Paul Tough's smart reporting on Annette Lareau's studies about how child-rearing differs by income. It's a split that affects this discussion we're having and a lot of other ones, I find.
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Emily has written lovingly about her sons numerous times here on XX Factor and contributes frequently to Slate's irregular Family columns, so, just as she has demonstrated as a lawyer, journalist, Slate senior editor, and co-founding editor of Double X, I know she is a high achiever in her mommy job. Most mothers are not as accomplished. On the other end of the parenting spectrum from Emily, I had so many mishaps when my adult children were young (especially my daughter who I had, unmarried, when I was 22), I probably should have been charged with child endangerment. The thing is, raising children is a moving target and most of us, even my pediatrician friends, make it up as we go along. As much as we try to maintain policies and structure in our homes, conflicting agendas, wanting to please our children, the gravitational force of the daily grind, absent baby sitters, new friends, sick siblings, sick friends, and new siblings all impact our decisions. Although I was immature, careless, and accident prone most of my questionable parenting moves still somehow turned out OK. Although I expected too much of my little girl, she more often than not lived up to those expectations. At least twice, her lack of supervision led to panicky alarm. Once in Mexico, like the children in Babel, her whereabouts were not traceable overnight. Another time in Key West, Fla., she disappeared in a bookstore. (After police were called, she materialized from behind the chapter-book shelves where, blissfully reading, she'd lost track of the time.)
Despite these parenting accidents, at the same time, I was responsible for her values and self-worth, and on that front, I didn't renege. Stealing was ugly, lying was dirty, other people's feelings were fragile, and she was, always, very loved and cherished. The lessons we pass on to our children come from years of teachable moments. Better safe than sorry is, as Emily says, a pat homily that can't be applied to a nuanced situation. But in a complex, always-changing, child-raising obstacle course, parents need to develop our own aphorisms to guide us.
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Better safe than sorry: It's unassailably pat. But that's not the real framing of the choice. Actually, there are always nuances: How old is your child, what kind of neighborhood are you letting her walk alone in, at what time of day? And what's the cost of never letting her out of your sight? Because there is one. Wendy Mogel, psychologist and author of Blessing of a Skinned Knee, who I've written about before, calls overprotected kids "teacups" and "krispies." They get to college and they can't fend for themselves because their parents never gave them breathing room.
Maybe the risk you took was too high, Bonnie, because the vacant lot your daughter walked through was trashy and isolated. The story of Etan Patz, which I know, is undeniably and stupendously awful. Beyond the paradigmatic parent's worst nightmare. But a friend of mine whose pediatric practice consists largely of helping abused kids reminds us that child abduction in this country is extremely rare. Almost all of the time, harm comes to kids from adults they know, not ones they don't. We're so transfixed by the worst nightmare scenario that we miss the more mundane but prevalent risks. Or we snatch from our kids any semblance of independence. My friend whose kid went to the store on the corner by himself e-mailed yesterday to say she hopes he can go to the park by himself—or with my older son—in a year or two, or sooner. I hope so, too.
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Rachael and Emily, like Bonnie, I am of the better-safe-than-sorry school of parenting.
First, I should say, Rachael has two-plus young children, Emily has two, Bonnie's are grown (correct me if I am mistaken), and I am childless by choice.
I am a bit older than Rachael and remember well the freedom of my childhood. I grew up in a semi-rural suburb of Boston, where we used to take off in the morning, go play on the catwalks (yes, the ones that led to the power lines!), go tramping through tick-infested ponds and swamps, trolling for frogs and salamanders, climb sap-covered trees, and come home right before dark with our white socks soaking wet with swamp muck and our hair matted.
We played baseball and softball in the streets until our parents rang bells out their front doors to call us home for dinner. We sought out an adult only when something went wrong: Kevin is stuck in a tree and is too scared to climb down! Kay has a giant bloody tick on her head! Paul smacked Ellen in the leg with a Whiffleball bat and now she's crying!
It was awesome.
But it was only awesome because no one was seriously maimed, abducted, or otherwise traumatized. And this was pure luck.
I do wonder and worry about these poor kids today, who have to be so constantly supervised: strapped into car seats, unable to wander or take off for an afternoon walk to find someone to play with. No more can they just stroll up to a neighbor's house, ring the bell, and say, "Can Kay come out and play?" It's all prescheduled, prearranged, and it's even called a date!
While Rachael says the kid in the story knew where he was going, had a cell phone, and his mom would be at the soccer field a few minutes after him so would know if he had arrived safely, what would she have done if he hadn't arrived safely? What could she have done?
Since I don't have children, maybe I have an unrealistic idea of what could happen, fueled by too many news stories, movies, and my own parents' paranoia (yes, even they who let me run wild as a child were terrified of crazy things). I have no doubt that the kid was capable, self-reliant, knew where he was going, etc., but his abilities are not at issue. Could not someone have driven up and pulled him into a car and driven off? Or is that just my imagination running wild?
I agree with Bonnie: Better safe than sorry.
The only thing I can compare it to is my dog. I now live in the city, in a neighborhood where the park is in one direction and the street on which you can do all your errands is in another. And so it is a constant dilemma for dog owners: walk the dog and then do errands or take the dog on errands even though it will mean having to tie her up outside? (Is it true or an urban legend that people steal dogs and sell them for science experiments?)
I try to never tie her up outside. If I have to, it will only be at stores that I need to run into for less than a minute with glass fronts so I can see her the whole time. Once I did have to run into the bank to get some quarters for laundry and parking, and I tied her up. I had to wait in a slow-moving line and I was a nervous wreck. Why was I doing this? Would $10 worth of quarters be worth losing her over? How would I explain it to my husband if someone took her? And would I ever forgive myself?
Granted, a dog is not a child: She is not my flesh and blood, not human, and I don't have to worry about guiding her toward independence so I can send her off to college and to become a self-sufficient adult.
But if she were taken, if that kid were taken, wouldn't the parent do anything to get back that moment and make a different decision? I know I would.
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Rachael, you are the same age as my daughter, making me among the lead-paint-exposing, tummy-down-crib-placing cohort of child neglectors whose Gen X children narrowly survived. In fact, I was probably among the worst of the loosey-goosey caretakers of the era, taking risks with my first-grade child that, in retrospect, should have brought the police. The cop who scolded the Mississippi soccer mom for letting her 10-year-old walk a few blocks to the playing field may have over-reacted, but, belatedly embracing my geezer curmudgeon, I say, better safe than sorry. When I was a young single mother in 1978, we lived in the unrenovated Adams Morgan neighborhood of D.C. My little girl's public school was about nine blocks west on Calvert Street from the city bus stop nearest our rented row house. Where a park would form a few years later, my 6-year-old cut daily through a vacant lot strewn with old tires to get to the 40 line stop. I walked with her to the bus stop the first few days of the school year, but after she knew the way, I let my self-sufficient grade-school child set out alone every a.m. with a bus token and a peanut butter sandwich. My daughter survived my cavalier and inexperienced parenting and took her independence with her when she moved to Manhattan for college. As so many of you Generation X achievement goddesses, she grew up fearless at facing her professional and personal challenges. The self-reliance forged in childhood has served her well. That said, I was a nitwit who acted as if the innocent were immune. My neighbors should have blown the whistle on me. That spring, another child the same age as my daughter, destined perhaps for a similar happy future, wasn't as lucky. A set of well-intentioned but naive New York City parents heard a wakeup bell that reverberates today in Mississippi; Washington; New Haven, Conn.; and Ohio. The boy's parents, Julie and Stan Patz, were loving caretakers who, like me, failed to estimate the risk of allowing their 6-year-old to walk two blocks from his apartment door to his school bus. I've just finished reading a new release, After Etan, by my former ABC News colleague Lisa Cohen (who now teaches journalism at Columbia). Lisa's book is a disturbing and harrowing dissection of the unsolved Etan Patz missing child case that "held America captive" for days, weeks, and years after his disappearance. I'm certain that National Missing Children's Day, observed every year on the anniversary of their son's kidnapping, offers little comfort to his parents.
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Rachael, I'm also thoroughly depressed over the story of the cops getting called on the mom who let her 10-year-old walk one-third of a mile to soccer practice alone. Not just because of my own childhood walk to school, over several blocks in Philadelphia that added up to more than a mile (woo hoo). But also because kids need to be able to go places alone for their own sanity. In the New Haven neighborhood I live in now, there's a beloved Italian grocer down the street. My parent friends and I have debated when our kids can go there by themselves, and then lo and behold, one of the dads went ahead and sent his 8-year-old over. Bless him. The next hurdle is the park three blocks away. You have to cross two busy streets to get there, and a couple of years ago a babysitter was raped in the woods that border it. So it's not an easy call—we don't live in a big city, but it's still a city. But I really hope that as my kids turn 10 and then 11 and 12, they can have some sense of the power of their own mobility. When you walk alone, you get to think your own thoughts and make your own choices. Even if it's just when to jump over a crack in the sidewalk or watch a cat curl up on a porch, it matters.
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In today's installment of "Wow, I feel like a geezer" ... I'm feeling like the stereotypical old man who grouses to his grandkids that when he was a kid, "We had to walk five miles to school, uphill each way, in three feet of snow."
BoingBoing picked up this post from a blog called Free-Range Kids. Turns out a mom let her 10-year-old walk one-third of a mile to soccer practice ... wait for it ... by himself. Kind of. He had a cell phone, and anyhow Mom had to be at the soccer field a few minutes after he got there, so she would find out quickly if he arrived safely. Alas, the poor kid got only three blocks before a cop stopped him. When the cop found the mom at the soccer field, he explained that they'd received "hundreds" of calls to 911 and said she could be charged with child endangerment. (I somehow doubt that this small town in Mississippi has the population density to lead to "hundreds of calls.")
I know that my generation (X, if you must know) likes to joke about how it's amazing we survived childhood, without five-point-harness car seats and cribs that had lead paint and parents who let us sleep on our tummies. Of course we can joke about it, because we survived. There's no doubt that improved safety guidelines for children's products and better advice from pediatricians have indeed made us safer. But when I was a kid, I walked to kindergarten by myself. Sure, there were other kids in the neighborhood and we'd walk together when we saw one another, but I knew where I was going and how to stop at the stop signs and look for cars and not talk to strangers. At the pool we swam at every summer, every kid looked forward to turning 10 because that's when you could start going without your parents. (Yes, there were lifeguards.)
I don't know if neighborhoods are safer or more dangerous today than when I was growing up. As with most things, it probably depends on where you live. And no doubt, people are influenced by a 24-hour news cycle filled with accounts of missing Caylees and Elizabeths. But parents need to be able to take reasonable steps to foster independence in their children, free from the meddling of nosy neighbors.