Last week, I let the kids run loose on the beach in Southern California. They ran to the sand, frolicked in the waves and talked to strangers.
And I wasn’t within arms’ reach of them. In fact, there were a few times I couldn’t even see them. But their voices carried far and I knew they were just out the back door of the patio at the beach home we were visiting.
They laughed. They screamed “AHHH! We’re getting soaked.” They chased down the tennis balls dogs dropped for them to throw.
For the most part, I was up on the patio reading my book. But I didn’t have them in sight all the time. I ran inside to get water bottles and towels. I put the dishes in the dishwasher. I grabbed another soda from the refridgerator.
“We want to go the beach!” they yelled after breakfast each morning. “So go!” I said, shuffling them out the door.
There was really only one place to go - the sand and water right in front of us. And when the tide was high, I joined them in the water (years of visiting California beaches, I know what a strong current can do).
I don’t know why I felt a little freer to let them go during our vacation than I would, say, in our own neighborhood. But I did. Sometimes at home I will let them run across the street to the park with friends. But I usually have an eye on them from the upstairs window and I don’t leave them alone for long - I’m there within a few minutes.
So I surprised myself with my actions last week. From the porch I could see my son watch over his little sister. They knew exactly how far they were allowed to go into the water (”Don’t stand in water above your ankles. Make sure you can see the house.”) Mostly they chased the waves and let the waves chase them.
It was nice to let them have that freedom. And it was nice to have that freedom for myself.
