We were playing at our neighborhood playground the other day when I noticed a group of older kids off to the side. I’m not a great judge of age, but I’d guess they were around seven to nine.
At first, I was wary. These kids are on the playground often and they pay no mind to the safety of the littles who might be using the structure. I prepped myself for them to storm the stairs and slides, but they never came.
What else could possibly have drawn their attention? They weren’t on any of the facility courts, but rather on a small grassy hill that sloped down into the woods.
I watched them. My son watched them.
They were taking turns running up to the tree line and then, if they were brave, into the woods. One at a time. If someone made it far enough in, they’d clap and cheer. Those who didn’t dare breach the perimeter were met with laughter.
The old me was wondering whether their parents knew this was what they were up to. Was this safe? What was on the other side of that tree line? What if one of the community powers-that-be drove by. Were the woods off limits?
I was about to lead my son away under the pretense of not letting him observe poor behavior, but something stopped me. These kids weren’t actually doing anything wrong.
There were no signs saying the woods were forbidden property. They weren’t hurting anyone or anything and they were in a large group, meaning someone could run for help if something risky occurred.
Those woods probably felt like an entire world of wonder to those kids. A portal into a space that is still wild in a development that is heavily curated.
My adult brain registered risk. Fear. Consequences.
But the kids? They probably only registered fun.