Independence day

My kids are outside, and I don't know where they are.

(Oh, crap, Whit reads this. Okay, honey, it's not that I don't know where they are totally, it just means they're in one of three places and I don’t know exactly which one at this given moment. So don't freak out. Really. It’s all good over here.)

This is significant because I have raised my children as if at any moment, a masked gunman who is also a pedophile and an arsonist will stroll down our suburban street and snatch them. For nine years, I have fervently believed that dire fate could only be avoided if I was physically holding their hands or had both eyeballs glued on them. Without blinking. (Yes, pathetic, you can say it.)

Playing outside? I sit on the front steps. Riding bikes? I follow with the dog and wear a good sports bra. Out in our own backyard? I open all the windows so I can hear them if they need me.

A little smothering, did you say? Um, yeah.

When Caroline started kindergarten I found out that the kids were almost unsupervised at recess. I lost it. I wanted armed guards patrolling the perimeter, not aides who couldn't possibly give their undivided attention to my child. My very AT RISK child. (Kidnappers like her looks. I’m sure of it.)

Anyway, yes, I am crazy. Looney. I admit it. And now you know why it's such a huge step for me to let my children play outside without GPS collars around their necks.

Maybe I'm growing up. Or letting them grow up. Or just acting somewhat normal for a change. We'll see if it sticks.