Free Ranging It

Came across this excellent website after poking around at O'Donnell Web and BoingBoing.

It is encouraging to know so many other parents still have some good old fashioned common sense and are teaching their children how to really live. Lenore Skenazy, you might remember, is the mother raked across the coals for letting her then fourth grade son navigate his own way home on a NYC subway from a department store. Her blog is evolving from being a clearinghouse for stories and tips to spearheading a rights movement, supporting the rights' of children to actively participate in the real world and of parents to let them without fearing charges of neglect.

When I see people like my parents, who were surely free-range kids in their own time and who let my brothers and I range freely (even after a friend and I were nearly abducted), with their elaborate home security system beeping and booping and announcing various level alerts, and who first carve up the carton from their new gigantic flat-screen HDTV and dispose of it in pieces over a period of weeks to avoid the notice of roving gangs of garbage-gawking thieves (not that leaving the old 32" monster on the curb isn't already a pretty good indicator a better model is now on the premises), and who peel address labels off magazines before disposing of them; or kids so cowed by their parents they avoid speaking to strangers or making eye contact with them, even if the 'stangers' are merely less oft seen relatives, I blame the media: the twenty-four hour cable news networks, the tabloids, the whole lot of fear-mongering, paranoia-inducing, sensational sources of crap. The influence of the media has turned most of us into insecure quivering piles of jelly. It's a culture of fear.

How many times have I worried about being the lead story on the local evening news? Plenty. But that won't stop me from letting the kids have the opportunity to learn new skills and develop responsibility, independence, and good judgment. The focus of our never-ending search for a home has always been finding a place where the kids could be kids.

So far I've raised three kids on a boat-only island, allowed them to swim and explore pretty much at will frequently unattended and never forcibly encumbered by flotation devices. They've played with fire, driven the powerboat and taken their own rowboats out on adventures, and been left alone for short periods of time. In Australia they drove cars, rode bikes without helmets, jumped on horses and went off sightseeing, fished, swam, and snorkled in waters inhabited by crocs, sharks, stingrays, and box jellyfish, swam in creeks and rivers without adult supervision, swung off rope swings, camped in cattle yards with dingoes about, prepared meals from scratch, slicing and dicing included, and cooked them with gas appliances, walked unchaperoned around town. I even let Sarabelle go bungee jumping with a group of friends and another parent. They rarely wore shoes. They played in the rain. Back here in Florida they have gone for bike rides around the neighborhood out of our sight and walked about three-quarters of a mile to the supermarket for various items.

There have been a few misadventures among their pursuits, but we are learning to face our fears and they are learning to judiciously experience the world.

Ready to call the authorities over my seemingly laissez-faire parenting? Don't. I understand the difference between possibilities and probabilities. Is it possible for one particular bad thing to occur? Of course. But, how likely is it to actually occur? Not very. Most people don't understand that crucial difference. We do our kids a huge disservice protecting them from every potential bad thing.

Those parents who would bubblewrap their children in their gated 'communities' and attend only structured liability-conscious activities have only a false sense of security. Their child is in more danger given the fact they are dependent and grossly unprepared for the risks of real life where they will sink or swim without mommy and daddy and their water wings.

Fellow free-ranger, Becky, has a tremendous collection of posts and links on her Farm School blog under the header "Courting Danger". Kick the kids outside and have a look.

What dangerous things have your children done? What dangerous things will you allow them to do?

Have an exciting, adventurous new year.

It's the Thought That Counts

Palm tree-embroidered toilet paper. Hand-made, palm tree-embroidered toilet paper that my friend warned I was not to take out of its festive cellophane wrapping when a closer inspection was required. A present you are forbidden to open or use. It sits on the back of your toilet tank. It's a decoration. Duh. All this talk of layoffs and a bad economy yet there are still so many untapped markets.

A neighborhood cat, perhaps annoyed that we are back in town and jealous of the time our own cats now spend preferring our company to his, left his scatological season's greetings on Grice's skateboard and strategically rolled it out from under the bench on our porch into the walkway.

Presents left by gift-givers, blood relatives you haven't seen in a year, who won't make the effort to wait a few more minutes until you arrive or who refuse to travel from the comfort of their couch to meet you partway after your total driving time of six and a half hours to visit them are not worth a flip. If it's merely an exchange of assets to fulfill your holiday obligations and absolve your guilt, mail us a check next year.

People worried about the economy should not be buying costumes and presents for their dogs. Or jeweled cases for their cell phones. Or flamboyant lighting displays and monstrous inflatables. And if you can't afford to keep those giant air-filled grotesqueries going all day long, don't even bother. Nothing says Merry Christmas like a flaccid St. Nick.

Stocking stuffers purchased Christmas Eve from the local grocery store after you blanked about the fake furry footwear dangling from your holiday display at the eleventh-hour can be acceptable and appreciated.

A gorgeous mock croc leather handbag and an electric tea kettle under the tree -- after mentioning that your four-year old purse finally fell apart and the canvas tote you are currently hauling around is too big to easily locate items and arouses a great deal of suspicion in retail venues, and voicing regrets that you left your electric tea kettle in Australia when you desperately wanted a speedy, scaldingly hot cup of tea -- are the perfect ways to show your Christmas spirit and that you really were paying attention.

A neighbor's pair of salvaged antique oak and leaded-glass door built-in bookcases hauled from the curb to the safety of your in-law's garage late Christmas night before the regular dumpster divers and municipal trash collectors arrive even though you are dead tired from the day's festivities and still have a three hour drive ahead of you is another way to show your spouse you care.

So is leaving her alone the day after Christmas, without children, without having to venture near a store, with a pile of books and magazines, to, hypothetically, lie around in her bathrobe all day if she so chooses, blogging, drinking scaldingly hot tea, and polishing off the cookies for Santa.

The beautiful cake and cookies left anonymously on our doorstep last night are greatly appreciated but will remain uneaten until the donor can be determined. We are back in South Florida, you know.