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BY LORI SENDER
NEWJERSEYNEWSROOM.COM
So there it is, my 10-year-old son and a friend, for a walk into town – by themselves.
This is a first ... for him, yes, but mostly, for me. He grabs a 10-dollar bill from his toy bank, gives me a perfunctory hug and heads out the door to join Spencer on his skateboard. I watch through the small window of the front door as they turn the corner and are gone.
This is what I don't say. "What do you say if a stranger approaches in his car?" You're not my father!" – he'd say as a seven-year-old. "What if they have a dog?" "I'd run the other way." "What if he's dressed as Mr. Policeman? "You're not my father!"
No quotes from "The Runaway Bunny" and not a word of busy traffic. I try with all my might to put a muzzle on it, and I do succeed, every last thought never uttered.At his age, in fifth grade, I was riding my bike – two towns and one busy highway over – for an ice cream cone and a leaf through magazines. Or riding to the boardwalk, to the penny arcade, grubbing pinball games when my last quarter had run out and nighttime fallen. He needs to do this, I know. But I wonder how it is that all that independence I felt as a kid, all that bravado is so lacking when it comes to handing it over to my son.
Times have changed, yes, but still, I have this inkling I'm holding on a bit more than most.
Maybe I've taken away all his street smarts with this mother-hovering. And now I've sent him off to the wilds without much in the way of cunning, leaving him defenseless and weak as a runt animal.
He'll be an easy target, all that sweetness and pudgy cheek, his self-deprecating humor and shyness a notable disadvantage in the real world. Then again maybe he can catch up, as in today, and grab some of his friend's glibness and pluck, maybe even mimic his loping gait and hearty laugh.
It's a few hours later and the doorbell rings, his telltale ring, finger on the buzzer endlessly. I jump up and run to the door. Their cheeks are rosy, their eyes bright. "The comic store is closing Mom," he says earnestly. "Everything was half off!"
I want to pick him up in my arms, hug him like I did when he was half his weight, passing from window to window as I'd point out the squirrels. But he's already in the basement, laughing and talking with his friend.
