Dispatches

I am writing this missive from the front lines in the Sane Mom Revolution. My 12yo is running track this spring, and he has been a little dismayed to see how quickly fitness ebbs across a winter spent watching Great British Bake Off. He's been asking if he could make a weekend trip to the university track to run intervals. He recruited Pete, who is not quite 10, to hold the stopwatch. 

"Can we go?" he asked me as I chopped onions this evening? "Right...now?" I said. "Yep," Joe answered. "We were going to ride our bikes."

The university track is less than a mile from our house, along a street that is moderately traveled: not so much traffic that you'd worry about cars, not so quiet that you'd worry about nefarious activities going unwitnessed. They know the way. There should be ample spring light. My husband would say yes without a second thought. 

I had to think for a minute. Bike crashes. Busybody neighbors. Sibling conflict that invites a bike crash or a busybody's intervention. I had to weigh the risks against the value of the experience: the step forward in getting around independently, in working toward a goal with no adult breathing down your neck.

I said yes, go ahead.

Joe said, "It's public, right? We don't have to worry about anyone telling us we can't be there?" 

I said, "It's fine for you to be there as long as no university teams are practicing. And don't let anybody give you any guff. Be polite, but don't be afraid to say, 'My mom said it was fine for us to be here.'"

I am still kind of waiting for the police to ring the bell.