Capitulate Now: Issue 77

Well I guess this is growing up

One day in September we got a text from a neighborhood dad friend: His son and another member of the fifth grade neighborhood crew were planning to walk themselves home from school that day, for the first time. Was Gus interested in joining? I felt the thrilling jolt that comes whenever you learn that a peer is allowing their child a freedom that you had not yet even considered for your own kid. Someone you trust has already decided to be buffeted by the headwinds of a particular risk? Praise be. Now you can just slip in behind them, another goose in the v formation. “Wow sounds great,” I texted back immediately, “I’ll tell Gus!”

Later that day Ryan, who had been on the text thread but had not had a chance to respond in the two seconds it took me to unilaterally approve the proposal, told me he was not super comfortable with it. I felt sheepish: It had not even occurred to me to confer with him. I try not to care too much about the warmed-over parenting advice of our times or put too much trust in any particular voice, but as the mother of two kids ages 10 and 8 I suppose I have been somewhat Haidt-pilled in the last year or two. It annoys me that one particular guy should get all the credit for the idea that parents can join together to allow their children more freedom and autonomy in the non-digital world, but I do agree that this approach is a good one if you can swing it, and so when our neighbor texted about the walking home proposal it seemed like a no brainer to me, your average internet-addled middle-aged mom. Our son and his two best bros (and come to think of it, also his little brother), drawing themselves to their full heights, setting their jaws, and stepping resolutely into the urban wilds of Northeast DC? Hell yea, brother.

The walk home from school is the same as the drive: A straight shot through a residential area, with crossing guards at two of the gnarliest intersections. But the final intersection is a big one with no crossing guard, and the walk itself is a whopping two miles, and the children in question are all average-to-small sized boys, and, obviously, people drive like fucking assholes in this city. There wasn’t even time to deliver one of my fire-and-brimstone sermons about pedestrian safety, because the plan came together after the school day had already started. The best I could do was text Gus instructions (pick up your brother first, stick together, CROSS THE STREET CAREFULLY I AM SO SERIOUS, be home by 4:30, have fun!!) and then put it out of my mind. They are all good kids, I told myself. They will be disoriented by the sudden freedoms granted unto them, and this will translate into a shared ethos of manly caution. If anything goes wrong, Gus can call me, although come to think of it he forgot to charge his watch last night so it might die before the school day is out, fuck me (the watch did, in fact, die; he had his homeroom teacher text me to say they were leaving, and so I was at least alerted to the beginning of the communications blackout as the children disappeared around the dark side of the moon).

The walk was uneventful. They landed at one of the other houses and played video games until I walked over to pick them up. As I escorted them home I felt myself inspecting them, scanning them. I expected them to be changed. I think they were, but playing it cool. It was fine, they insisted. It was easy. We killed so many lanternflies!

This same crew walked home a few more times (and their exploits became the stuff of fifth grade legend, at least according to the other parents who told me that their kids were now bugging them for permission to walk home too, lol, oh my god you cannot imagine how smug this made me feel. Sorry for party rocking, nerds!!!), but their enthusiasm for the practice seems to have tapered off because they haven’t done it for two months or so. Maybe the novelty wore off, and plodding 45 minutes home is no longer more appealing than the alternative (hanging out on the soccer field behind the school until everyone’s personal chauffeurs arrive). Or maybe it got weird once or twice. I heard the barest outline of one story about some man on a bike who was “sus,” plus apparently on their last walk home they decided to skip the leafy residential route in favor of walking up Rhode Island Avenue, a major, charmless artery that slices through our quadrant of the city. I cannot imagine it was much of a vibe, trudging past the Boost Mobile and the shuttered Walgreens while traffic roared all around them. Perhaps it made them feel small and exposed, because, of course, they were.

One Friday in late September, maybe a little high on our own supply, Ryan and I had an idea: We could take our laptops to a small neighborhood brewery right on the walking route, about one-third of the way from school to our house. We would telework from there for an hour or so, and have the kids meet us there. What a feeling, coming up with this plan! The early fall air was crisp and fresh, we were back to being a two-income household, and our children were getting older in a way that for once made me excited instead of bummed out. I sent a prayer of thanks to the universe in general and to our eldest’s new smartwatch specifically, that beautiful device that he was not particularly interested in looking at and that had so far only improved our family life. I gave psychic props to their school’s dismissal policies as well, which allow the 5-8th graders to grab their younger siblings and leave the school grounds at the end of the day. What a time to be alive! See you at the bar, kids!!

Let us cast our minds back a few years to the sunny springtime day when Gus, mid-Easter egg hunt, looked at me and narrowed his eyes and asked, how do you know there are eight more eggs? You’re the Easter Bunny, aren’t you? And you’re the Tooth Fairy? And you’re Santa Claus? And like a sweaty suspect sitting under a single bare bulb, face to face with my terrifying interrogator (my parents were there too, witnessing the entire exchange; I think this makes them the shadowy figures monitoring the scene behind the one-way mirror), I crumpled and confessed: Yes, yes, yes. He was six years old.

So he and I had spoken a new era of his childhood into existence, it seemed. As Christmas rolled around that year, I readied myself to initiate a “I Know You Are Enlightened Now But Please Don’t Ruin This For Your Brother” type of talk. But instead, he did the most unexpected thing: He acted like the big reveal had never happened. He would cheerfully talk about Santa, and what he hoped the big guy would bring him; he would warn his brother not to be naughty, and he would tell him no, dummy, that Santa over there isn’t real, he’s just a helper, the real Santa is up north. Not a trace of insincerity or campiness in his voice. He seemed to have completely wiped the truth from his mind, because he hadn’t been ready to hear it. Our little boy, heroically extending his own childhood beyond the barricade that his thoughtless mother had thrown in his path! I felt in awe of him, and ashamed of myself.

This is what I was thinking about as I sat at the brewery and texted the instructions to Gus and slowly realized that he and his brother were not necessarily sharing in their parents’ exuberant feelings re: them walking themselves to this brewery, which was right off the walking route but nonetheless not a place they were familiar with. He kept texting me uneasy follow up questions: Where are you again? Which street is 10th street? Can you come meet us?

Then: We’re outside the food hall

Then: Are you coming?

I was walking at that point, just half a block away but hidden from view by a large truck in the food hall loading dock. I imagined them sitting on a bench together, staring nervously into space, maybe looking at the playground across the street, alive with toddlers and preschoolers, where they themselves used to play. I started to text a response but just broke into a jog instead. I’m coming! I’ll be there!