Dear Helicopter Parents: Let My Kid Climb

Not again.

It’s a beautiful, sunny June day. I’m at the playground with my daughter, 3 years old and 30 pounds of fire. I’m enjoying a few minutes of peace and a shaded bench. She’s doing what she does best, climbing with the ease and confidence of a child twice her age. It’s a running joke among family and friends that she’s been training for American Ninja Warrior from the day she could roll over, and I’m not going to stand in her way.

I look away for a second. When I look up, she’s trying to climb to the second story of the play structure...and the arms of a gentleman I don’t know are pulling her down for no reason I can see. The only thing my daughter looks upset about is being made to abandon an activity this stranger has deemed too dangerous for her.

I know this gentleman means well. He thinks he’s rescuing a poor little girl who’d bitten off more than she could chew. But if he had watched her before charging to the rescue, he’d have known she was fine - if anything, that structure was becoming a bit too familiar to be a real challenge.

This isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last. I’m raising a special kind of daredevil, frightened by fountains and ants, but fearless when faced with the physical challenge of a rope ladder, jungle gym, or climbing wall. She’s a ball of fire, but she’s tiny and often misjudged for her size.

My daughter is me, 30 years on. I grew up climbing trees, roaming freely, building my strength and balance on playground equipment built of unpainted steel and weathering wood, the unforgiving pebbles sure to leave a mark if I fell. And I did fall. I scraped knees and elbows. I got pinched and pushed and stuck.

I tested my limits. Sometimes I really did bite off more than I could chew, but I learned where my limits were, and what I had to do to overcome them.

This used to be acceptable - encouraged, even. But at some point in my lifetime, our society stopped believing that pain and failure are acceptable ways for children to learn. We stopped seeing our children as full of potential and started seeing their world as full of unacceptable risks. We’ve set so many limits for them, removed so many perceived dangers, that we deny them the opportunity to learn.

It’s a shame.

To my daughter’s knight in shining armor: You didn’t rescue my daughter, you took away an opportunity to learn. Leave her be. Let her climb. Let her find how high is too high. Let her hang by the arms and drop to the ground.

Let her fall and learn from her mistakes. Let her succeed and relish in her accomplishments.

And if she’s in any real danger, I’m right here. Me. The mom. The one who knows better than anyone else on earth what her limits are. And every time I tuck her into bed, I swear a silent oath to do all I can to keep her safe. I will protect her from the real dangers. And I will hold her close and kiss her boo-boos and give her all the love I can. But I will never, ever deny her the opportunity to learn.

So excuse me as I leave the shady comfort of my bench and offer it to you. This is the second time you’ve tried to rescue my daughter. And, good sir, I’m putting you in timeout. This playground is my child’s classroom and you are disrupting her ability to learn. I will take over the lesson while you sit down and think about what you’ve done.