I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
April 5, 2010
>“Please, Mommy,” Punky begged. “Please can I go play next door? Stephanie’s mommy said it was okay.”
Just the day before, my husband had uncovered a gate long hidden beneath the ivy of our fence, a gate that directly connected my daughter with her five-year-old playmate next door. Punky and her neighbor friend loved playing basketball with the friend’s seven-year-old brother, and if they stayed on the driveway “court,” I could see them from the house.
“Okay, Punky,” I relented. “You can go through the gate by yourself and play. But do not leave their driveway, understand?”
“I won’t, Mommy,” she promised and flew out the back door, braids flying. I watched her go and felt the familiar push-pull of parenthood begin nagging at the back of my mind. Part of me wanted to have an eye on my tiny daughter at all times; the other part wanted a childhood like the one I’d had, one that included reasonable freedom to play at the neighbor kids’ houses without a parent constantly breathing down my neck. At five, I’d walked alone down the street to a friend’s house many times. Thirty years later, my own neighborhood is probably even safer than the one I grew up in.
So why was I running to the window every five minutes to check on my daughter?
After a third look outside, I sheepishly returned to the kitchen. Punky had played over there hundreds of times. She was going to be fine. But after a few more minutes, I found myself wandering to the window again.
And she was gone. So were the neighbor kids.
Frowning, I walked outside, into our backyard. “Punky!” I called. Then, louder. “PUNKY!”
Nothing.
I walked back inside, trying not to panic. Punky had probably just gone inside with Stephanie to have a snack or grab some new toys. I would simply call next door and find out what had happened.
And then I heard children yelling outside on the street.
I got to the front window just in time to see my five-year-old daughter running up the street with her friends. I was stunned. Punky never, ever disobeyed me. Judging from nearly six years of experience with the child, I actually wouldn’t have believed her emotionally capable at this age of ignoring my orders.
Until now.
I took a deep breath and opened the front door.
“Punky!” I said sternly. She stopped, dead in her tracks and looked up at me, stricken. “What on earth are you doing on the street?” I asked her. She stood frozen in place. “Come inside the house right now!”
Punky ran up the steps and stopped before me, breathing rapidly. I could practically see her heart pounding in her chest.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, too frightened to even cry. “I’m sorry, Mommy!”
“Punky, I told you not to leave Stephanie’s driveway,” I said. “And what did you do?”
“I left her driveway,” she whispered.
“Do you have any idea what I felt like when I went to check on you out the window and you weren’t there?” I asked her. “It scared me. I didn’t think you’d disobey me, so I worried that something had happened to you. And then I hear shouting on the street- and I go out to look and it’s you?!”
Big, fat tears began to squeeze out of her eyes and roll down her cheeks.
“You’re going to have to stay inside for the rest of the afternoon,” I told her. “I just can’t believe that you disobeyed me like that.”
She opened her mouth, scrunched up her eyes, and wailed, long and loud. And for the first time maybe ever, I didn’t take her in my arms and comfort her. Instead, I walked away.
Punky sat down on the staircase and cried like her heart would break. And when she was finally done, she walked into the kitchen, head held low.
“I’m sorry, Mommy,” she said, looking desolate. “I won’t do it again. I promise.” I sat down in a kitchen chair and she climbed up into my lap and sat silently with her head against my chest for a long, long time. I thought about my fragile, sensitive daughter and her big, big heart. I thought about how different she was from her fiercely independent older sisters who can’t wait to be on their own, and from her rambunctious and charismatic younger brother who at three is already eager to take on the world.
Let this be the one who puts her family first, I thought to myself as I stroked her hair. Let this be the one who helps take care of us when we’re old. Please give us just one child who won’t fly away the moment we open the door.
Let this be the one.
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