I came across this article by Lenore Skenazy about how she let her 9 y.o. son ride the subway home in NYC. I am always interested in these kinds of stories, because I don’t remember having that freedom, even though I may have wanted it (but was too afraid to have it, if I did). We were encouraged to play, sure, there’s a story I always tell that sums up how I grew up.
We lived in a suburb in Nashville, on about an acre of land. It backed up to the woods, and you couldn’t see our neighbors to either side, so it was pretty secluded. This one time, mom was at us to go outside and play (over and over! go outside! go play! it’s beautiful! have fun!), so we finally got the gumption to do it, and she kind of sucks in her breath and says “watch out for strange men and wild dogs!”
Yeah. It didn’t inspire the greatest sense of confidence in being alone outside. I know my mom would arge that it never hurt me none–I regularly would go on archaeological digs in college (my old major) to rather unsafe and unsavory places (riots? check. bombs? check), but I felt more comfortable being alone in a foreign country than in my own United States. It’s hard for me to shake a feeling that a molester or abductor is RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER. Because, well, aren’t they?
I don’t want this for Jack, because as an adult I still struggle with this (how many of the 2 people who read this blog have received those emails about how to protect yourself or a woman you love from abduction, by the way??). He needs to know how to handle himself, in or out of the house, and to make good decisions. I don’t want him to be afraid, but I do want him to be aware, and trust himself and his skills (yet not be so confident that he thinks he can handle any adult).
This article by the BBC shows a really interesting map of the range of 4 generations of a single family, and how the range of the kids diminishes with each generation. It’s kind of a bummer.