ADVENTURES OUTSIDE
Or, who needs "play dates"?
If you’re reading this blog then you probably know that I’m
aging not so much like fine wine but more like that left-over soup at the back
of your fridge. Nevertheless, there was
a time when I was a young mother with young children to care for and this
little story is a memory of that time.
When I look around me I see how mothers today care for their
children and it makes me wonder how mine survived. I’m
not referring to the extreme “helicopter” parents who garner a fair amount of
newsprint but rather the ones I see driving their children to school, the ones
who make sure by arranging “play dates” that their offspring do not play in the
dangerous outside. They are no doubt
convinced that the world is a much more perilous place than when they themselves
were young.
I don’t know how true those beliefs are I only know how I
acted as a parent in the “good ‘ole days”.
Let me tell you.
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| Immigrant travel in the 1960s |
The time frame was the 1960’s. LS along with her husband and child had just
immigrated to Canada. On the day I’m
remembering they were visiting us at our third floor apartment situated on a
busy North York street. My family then
consisted of two children. The eldest
was a boisterous 3 year old who, had I known about ADHD, I might have said was
afflicted with every letter of the alphabet.
Whereas, LS’s daughter was a 6 year old calm-well-behaved English young
lady.
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| The apartment building where we lived. |
Both children were tired of the constraints of the apartment. They wanted to go outside to play! No
problem. It was a fine spring day and a
little fresh air would do them good. In
case you’re thinking that either LS or I would accompany them - let me set the
record straight. We didn’t!
Instead, the mature 6 year old was given that
responsibility, and responsible she was.
She knew she was charged with keeping her small cousin safe and sound. She kept her eye out for any potential danger. She surveyed her surroundings and carefully
forewarned her young cousin if anything came to light.
It did! “Whatever you
do” she directed, “do not put your finger in that hole, it is dangerous”.
Had I been there, as the mother of this child I would have
rather slit my throat than have called attention to something of this nature,
especially when it was made even more appealing with the admonition to not go
near it. But I wasn’t there.
Need I say more.
Should you mention this story to the now grown man he will
gladly show you the scar on his finger.
Glass makes a nasty cut!
Perhaps today’s parents do know a thing or two.
