Dear Parents in My Neighborhood,
My kitchen door opens, and five children tumble through. This time, only one is mine – the others are children from the neighborhood. They are here on a mission, as apparently word has gotten out that we have popsicles in the freezer. Some days, it’s like watching a clown car; when the door opens I am never sure how many are going to come through.
Yes, as you know, my house is “that house”. The house in the neighborhood where all of the children seem to congregate. It wasn’t always this way, and I wasn’t always “that mom”.
Years ago, I was a cranky transplant from the East coast, having relocated from Washington DC back to the Ohio of my birth. The years away were enough to bury the kid in me that grew up playing on farms and the woods and creeks behind my childhood home. Urban Washington DC wasn’t a place to tell the kids to go outside to play; limited yard space meant a trip to the park, a walk to the market, or a scheduled trip to the zoo were more likely items on the daily agenda.
We moved back to Ohio when Washington DC just got too scary (see 9-11, anthrax, and sniper shootings). One baby was followed by another, then another. At first, I was completely thrown by small neighborhood children, having sniffed out potential playmates like pigs on truffles, showing up at random and asking if my kids could play. During those years, I was very likely to have a sleeping infant at any given time of day – a small child leaning on the doorbell and sending the dog into a barking frenzy was most definitely not welcomed. (See “cranky”, above.)
And playdates were to be scheduled, for goodness sake! None of this showing up at random and expecting fun! Firmly of the opinion that spontaneous joy needed to be planned well in advance, I fought the tide.
But the kids grew up, as kids do. Naps became a thing of the past. They became old enough to play outside with friends, and one by one the houses of the “empty nesters” surrounding us welcomed new families, all with young children.
And gradually, I adjusted to a new rhythm of life without even realizing it was happening.
Like finches to a feeder, they came. It seems our wide, flat yard and driveway are centrally located, and perfect for soccer, tee-ball, bike riding, or super-soaker fights. Now when telling someone where we live, I am often asked, “Oh! Is yours the house with all of the kids in the yard?”
Today our driveway is full of chalk drawings; there is blue paint on our front sidewalk plus some on the rhododendron. The immaculate landscaping left by the former owners has seen better days, although we put forth a decent effort. My day lilies are frequently half-day lilies, blossoms lying on the ground after being beheaded in some sort of imaginary dragon fight. Some day the yard will be beautiful again, but my house will be too quiet. This I know.
We have a tree on our lot perfect for climbing; one day I looked out and the tree was so full of children it looked like that scene in The Sound of Music, minus the matching outfits made from curtains.
I am distributor of snacks, drinks, and the occasional band-aid or ice ghost. Some days, we have so many children in and out that before I can put my own kids in the car to run an errand, I have to do a quick sweep of the house to make sure there are no stray neighborhood children about to be left inside by mistake.
We have rules, of course. No swinging sticks. (That never ends well.) Bring your cups back when you’re done. Clean up your messes, and don’t leave trash in the yard. My tomato garden is off limits. And try not to let the dog out unless you want to chase him down.
I have become practiced at getting a meal on the table despite swirling chaos; many nights, I ask for a show of hands to tell me who is staying for dinner. As long as they call home to confirm, or run home to ask, they are welcome. We can always throw a few more places down. Please know that your kids always eat well, have nice manners, and help clear the table.
Often one of you thanks me for having your kids over, whether for a meal, snack, or just to play in the driveway. Well, this is my chance to thank you.
Thank you for sharing your children. Thank you for raising such well-mannered young people. Thank you for allowing your children “out to play”, so my children can experience the kind of neighborhood camaraderie I had growing up. Thank you for not being the snack police and freaking out if your kid has a graham cracker before dinner. Thank you for returning the bike/shoes/soccer ball my kid left in your driveway.
When my kids collapse into bed at night, happy and exhausted from their adventures, I feel especially blessed to live among you. Thank you for the joy my kids experience every day, the kind of bike- riding, firefly- catching, tree- climbing, wind in your hair childhood that I was lucky enough to have. I treasure these years, and wouldn’t change a thing.
Notes from the Shallow End 