Free-Range Kids. Lenore Skenazy
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had no idea what was about to hit me.
A day later, there across from me sat host Ann Curry looking outrageously pretty—and slightly alarmed—because her next guest just might be criminally insane. By way of introduction she turned to the camera and asked, “Is she an enlightened mom or a really bad one?”
The shot widened to reveal me and Izzy. And then some other lady perched next to us on that famous couch who, I soon learned, was there to TEACH US A LESSON.
I quickly told the story about Izzy's ride. How this was something he'd been asking my husband and me to let him do, and how I think it makes sense to listen to your kids when they're ready for a new responsibility.
I know riding the subway solo might sound like a bigger responsibility than, say, feeding Goldie the goldfish, but here in New York, families are on the subway all the time. It's extremely, even statistically safe. Whatever subterranean terror you see Will Smith battling in the movies goes home when the filming stops (probably to New Jersey). Our city's murder rate is lower than it was in the 1960s and, by the way, it's probably down where you live, too. Nationally, the violent crime rate has plummeted by more than 70% since it peaked in the early 1990s, so crime-wise our kids are actually SAFER than we were, growing up. (Yes. Safer. And not just because all the kids are locked up inside, either. ALL crime is down—ignoring the Covid blip—even against adults.)
So while I did feel a little twinge letting Izzy go, it was that same twinge you feel when you leave your child in kindergarten that first day. You want it to be a great experience. And in this case, it was.
About one hour, one subway, and one bus ride after we parted, Izzy was back at home, proud as a peacock (who takes public transportation). I only wrote about his little adventure because when I told the other fourth-grade moms about it, they said they were going to wait till their kids were a little older—thirty-eight, thirty-nine, ….
So, back to The Today Show. After Izzy tells Ann how easy the whole thing was, Ann smiles and turns to the other lady who is a “Parenting Expert”—a term I have grown to loathe because this breed seems to exist only to tell us parents what we are doing wrong.
The expert is not smiling. She looks like I just asked her to smell my socks. She is appalled by what I did and says I could have given my son the exact same experience of independence in a much “safer” way—if only I had followed him, or insisted he ride with a group of friends.
“Well, how is that the ‘exact same experience’ if it's different?” I demanded. “Besides, he was safe! That's why I let him go, you fear-mongering hypocrite, preaching independence while warning against it! And why do TV shows automatically put you guys on, anyway? Isn't it because of professional second-guessers like you that us parents have stopped trusting our guts?”
Well, I didn't get all of that out, exactly. I did get out a very cogent, “Gee, um … ” but anyway, it didn't even matter, because as soon as we left the set, the phone rang. It was MSNBC. Could I be there in an hour? Yep. Then came Fox News. Could I come that afternoon? And MSNBC again. If I came today would I promise to come on again over the weekend? And suddenly, weirdly, I found myself at that place you always hear about: The center of a media storm. It was kind of fun but kind of terrifying, too, because everyone was weighing in on my parenting skills. Reporters queried from China, Israel, Australia, Malta. (Malta! An island! Who's stalking the kids there? Captain Hook?) TV stations across Canada threw together specials. Radio shows across America ate it up, as did parenting groups and PTAs. Newspapers, blogs, magazines from The Economist to Funny Times—even the BBC had me on.
The media dubbed me “America's Worst Mom.” (Go ahead—Google it.) But that's not what I am.
I really think I'm someone like you: a parent who is afraid of some things (bears, cars) and less afraid of others (subways, strangers). But mostly I'm afraid that I, too, have been swept up in the impossible obsession of our era: total safety and control of our children every second of every day. The idea that we should provide it, and actually could provide it. It's as if we don't believe in fate anymore, or good luck or bad luck. No, it's all up to us.
Simply by questioning the belief that our kids are in constant danger from germs, jerks, sports, injuries, sports-injuries, stress, sunburn, salmonella, skinned shins, flashers, frustration, failure, baby snatchers, bugs, bullies, men, and the perils of a non-organic grape, I became, to my shock, the face of a new movement: the one dedicated to fighting the other big movement of our time, helicopter parenting.
Which is not to say I haven't done a lot of that myself! My God—I'm part helicopter on my mom's side. I've hired tutors for my kids and, this being New York City, shrinks, too. I brought in a football coach to run a simple birthday party, and what really fun, carefree door prize did I give out? Protective mouth guards. Woo-hoo! Plus I made my kids spend one summer doing math sheets every day after camp, and another summer writing an essay a day. That's when they were eight and ten. People think I am anti-helicopter parenting. Nope. I am anti- a culture that is creating helicopter parents.
So the weekend after The Today Show interview, I launched the Free-Range Kids blog to trial-balloon the notion that maybe it's time to start giving our children back some independence. Hundreds, then thousands, then eventually hundreds of thousands of people started reading it, which led to this book, and that's how the Free-Range Kids movement took hold. Parents were thrilled to hear they can take a step back, relax, and EVERYONE wins, especially the kids. After we train our young wards to wash their hands, look both ways, and never go off with strangers—the age-old lessons our parents taught us—we can actually give them some of the same freedom we had. Go forth and frolic, kids. Ride your bike! And take out the garbage, too.
These are not radical acts. Chores, games, and getting the heck out of the house were all a hallowed part of childhood until just recently, and together they help develop the very traits we want to see in our kids: confidence, responsibility, good cheer.
In fact, all the latest research shows that play itself turns out to be the most important development booster of all. If it were a class, there would be waiting lists to get in. When kids are allowed the time and space to do something just because it interests them—even if it does not interest US—they end up developing the very initiative and self-esteem we've been trying to Botox into them with praise for every doodle and trophies for 22nd place. (If your kids don't have any of these yet, they will.)
Free-Range Kids reminds parents of what they already know in their heart of hearts. That when a girl makes her own tree house out of two old planks she's more ecstatic than she'd be with a four-bedroom Colonial (especially if she had to clean it). That the boy who loses for three seasons at hockey and then wins in Season Four has learned more—and matured more—than any kid who was told, “We're all winners!” every single time. And that when any of our kids get lost and scared but then scrappily find their way back, they come home three inches taller. And really hungry.
Kids are desperate to master the world, and we have always expected them to do just that. Until a generation or two ago (and to this day in less-wealthy countries), children had to pull their own weight as soon as they could. They planted seeds, fetched water. During the Civil War, they cut off their hair to make money for Marmee. (Or at least Jo did in Little Women and that's good enough for me.)
But today, in our understandable desire to ease their way and keep them safe, we've been pushed to do everything FOR our kids. Consider the fact that in some school districts, the Parent Teacher Associations have come up with a clever new way to raise money. They auction off the drop-off space directly in front of the school entrance. The sweet spot where kids have to walk the shortest distance between car and class.
Now consider the fact that if this spot were in front of a dentist's office, or mall, it would be labeled, “HANDICAPPED PARKING.”
In other words, for fear of kidnapping, cold, or just asking too much of their kids, loving parents are vying for the chance to TREAT THEIR CHILDREN LIKE INVALIDS.
What we forget is that all these “safety” choices are not without dangers