On learning to let kids become independent,
Giving children independence is a big decision for many parents but also a key part of growing up
My son wants to ride his brand-new bike to the park by himself. He is 10 years old. There are a pack of little boys and girls on my street — teenagers, too, all imprisoned by ice and snow and itching for freedom. It has been a long, cold winter. The instant the snow eased, they scurried outside to play basketball, cricket and soccer.
Now my son wants out of our cosy crescent, wants to venture into the park around the corner. He would be accompanied by his little brother and two other friends. The park is less than 300 metres from our house.
I do the mental math, like all parents faced with these tiny, everyday predicaments. What was I doing when I was his age?
I try not to think about scary teenagers harassing my kids. I don’t contemplate falls from playground equipment, stolen bikes or sinister lurkers.
“Why don’t you ask dad?” I hedge. He’s better at saying “no” than I am. My son scampers off, only to return a few seconds later. “He says whatever you decide.” I send an invisible death ray upstairs to my husband. Passing the buck is a time-honoured tradition in our family. I buy myself a few minutes by bolting to the bathroom. “Just a second!” I trill, locking the door on his hopeful face.
Kids don’t play outside anymore. That’s why they’re so obese and surly and myopic. This is not entirely true, in my experience. Over 90 per cent of my high school students say they began to play outside without adult supervision at 6, with full access by 9 or10. So my boy is right on schedule.
Then again, I teach and live in Markham, a city where “minorities” comprise more than 60 per cent of residents. Perhaps letting kids play unchaperoned is a first-generation immigrant thing. My parents, despite being overprotective Muslim South Asian immigrants, let me loose until dark.
Bike-riding around my Scarborough neighbourhood with friends or alone is a favourite childhood memory. My own neighbours, mostly immigrants from Pakistan, Sri Lanka and China, allow the same.
How different life would be if we lived on a childless street, or if my kids didn’t attend the local public school or if I scheduled all play dates and hobbies like
“Bike-riding around my Scarborough neighbourhood with friends or alone is a favourite childhood memory.” UZMA JALALUDDIN MOTHER AND TEACHER
many other parents.
My children would never have learned cricket, or made snow forts on my neighbour’s lawn or learned to steer a bike with their knees.
When is an independent bike ride more than just a bike ride? When does it become a metaphor for the type of neighbourhood children inhabit, for the type of neighbourhood their parents grew up in?
Toronto is known as a city of neighbourhoods. I think the GTA is really a city of neighbourhood streets; little arterioles and venules feeding the major arteries and veins of a wider metropolis.
Just as the streets I grew up on have imprinted themselves on me in a way that is indelible, my adopted north-end neighbourhood is imprinting itself, for good and for bad, onto my son.
There is a polite knock on the bathroom door. “Mom? Can I go?” My son is used to my delay tactics, but this time his friends are waiting for my answer. No, I think. I’m not ready for this.
I emerge, pale-faced. “Yes,” I say. “Only for half an hour, don’t talk to anyone while you’re there. And make sure you take care of your little brother.”
The minutes he is gone drag by but he returns promptly, flushed with pride and fresh air. How did it go? I ask.
“We played tag with some other kids on the playground. I fell off the slide, look at my bruise.”
He shows off an angry red mark before continuing. “Usman’s dad came with us. They weren’t allowed to go by themselves.” I hide my smile. “Can we go to the 7-Eleven next?” he asks.
“Let’s stick to the park,” I say. This is as far as I’m willing to let him go, at least for now.