The Mommy Scribe

24 hours later, my toddler is still talking about tumbling into the retention pond near our apartment. We were collecting and throwing rocks. I figured since he wants to throw things, what better than a rock into water? We follow this up with an emphatic “plop!” It’s so much fun his little friend who lives right there by the pond brings his mom and they gather and throw rocks with us.

We were amicably chatting about how I was ok with mine splashing in water no deeper than his ankles and she didn’t want her boy getting even close.

“It’s full of bacteria,” she said. I appreciate that. But it’s rainwater, and it’s his feet. The fact that the ducks that swim there don’t have growth on their heads is a good indicator that his skin won’t turn green overnight. “He’s not swimming in it nor is he drinking it,” I replied. And in that moment I ate my own words.

In tumble turned somersault down into the water, he got a mouthful.

He’d moved away from the shallow water back onto dry land and was pointing toward water that was probably up to his waist. And darn it his foot slipped and he stumbled down the hill into the pond. I was so close that there was no time too feel fear on my part. He saw me reach down with his mouth agape and eyes wide as saucers, to pull him to safety. He did something instinctive too.

He held his breath.

I mentioned this to someone who is a former swim coach. “It’s good he did that,” she said, followed by, “and good that you didn’t freak out. That’s how they learn to swim.” “Let him jump into the pool, ” she added. With you in it, of course.”

I never really considered the “what ifs,” with him falling in. I was right there. Besides, if I start considering what ifs in everything, he’ll never get to do much. He’ll never get dirty and he won’t comfortably learn how to be a boy. And now that I’ve had time to think about it, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m glad he fell in. One day, he’ll be old enough to venture out on his own, I tend to think the experience now is good for handling the unexpected later. Little people tend to freak out less than mature adults. And the more he can experience the unexpected now, without me freaking out, the better he’ll handle it later.

My job in letting him be a boy is knowing when he’s beyond his limit. Since he can’t decipher for himself, I have to. But I also have to let him grow.

It’s my job to teach him about danger. But he’ll learn more from touching and tasting and doing than he’ll ever get from hearing, “move back” “don’t do that” and “stop.” Which, I assure you, he hears plenty of too. Yes, I know the world he lives in is not the world I grew up in. I know there are a lot more dangers to consider. I also know what happens to people who live in fear.

We cripple that which we inhibit and it’s not my job to cripple him.

Call me old-fashioned, but I tend to think boys should be boys. Dirt, rocks, snakes, water… sticks, climbing. And any mom of a boy knows there’s a certain level of danger to that. Heck, as I girl, I grew up skipping rocks, throwing baseballs, touching snakes, examining spiders, bating hooks, hooking and cleaning fish.

And you know? I knew about danger because the adults in my life often showed or told me what could happen. “No” wasn’t something I heard all the time. And my mom didn’t stand over my every move in fear that I’d die. But my parents did teach me about danger.

I’ll parent my children the same way.

I want him to experience life with risk and capture all the beauty it provides in the process. Bacteria and all.