By Krystal Sieben 
I have a confession: Yesterday I let my 11-year-old play with fire. Like literally. We live in the country, there is still wet snow on the ground, and he’s done it with his dad at least 20 times. But yesterday was the fifth consecutive day of no school, and probably the twentieth consecutive day of him asking to have a small fire without dad. Part of me did it out of laziness. Part of me did it out of selfishness. And part of me did it out of nostalgia.
Here’s the thing—when I was 11, I was already babysitting (like infants!) and had been for at least a year. I rode my bike unsupervised down busy city streets. I came home to an empty house and got myself situated after school. I watched R-rated movies. I roamed my neighborhood at night. I was dropped off at the mall with friends and no adults.
My son has hardly done ANY of this. We live in an age where we are taught to over-parent. Kids spend time safe in our basements playing Minecraft, where they can avoid getting scraped knees or burned fingers, or bruised egos. And I fully participate in this.
Am I saying the ’80s parenting I received is the gold standard? Absolutely not. But every now and then, I wonder if taking a page from that book might make our kids more confident…more resilient…happier.
So my son sat outside yesterday for, no exaggeration, four hours. It was 45 degrees outside. It was cloudy. It was just him and one buddy. They worked for HOURS to stoke the coals and drop in pine needles to get this fire going. They came in and asked for lint. They came in and asked for newspaper. They came in and asked for some advice. And finally, they came in beaming with pride and excitement, and announced they’d gotten it going.
In that moment, it hit me.
I don’t remember my parents being a constant source of entertainment. I played the occasional Nintendo game, but definitely didn’t spend day after day relegated to the TV room trapped inside a world of “safety.”
We ran the neighborhood. We got dirty. Made bike jumps and tested them out, many times. Climbed and fell out of trees. Had races running barefoot down the street. Played “bloody knuckles.” Walked miles to the convenience store to see how much candy we could successfully buy with $1. We made and fought about the rules of games. Played with the garden hose. Took the highest leaps from moving swings. Even participated in the occasional ding-dong-ditch.
And watching my son and his friend spend hours on a fire, I realized, we ’80s kids were so much better for it.
He came home from school, and I asked him if he wanted to practice some AI he’s been doing on my computer. He said no. He wanted to try to start a fire.
I’m not going to change my entire parenting style to reflect that of the 1980s, but maybe a small fire, with supervision out the window, might be a good place to start.
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