The Kids are Alright

You hear a lot about childhood these days, how parents won't let children out of their sight, how kids sit in front of the television or the computer or video games all day, how childhood obesity rates are skyrocketing. These stories can be a little depressing, because so many of us remember our own childhoods as being full of freedom and outdoors and bikes and role-playing and kickball games and neighborhood friends. Of course, I know that both images of childhood are the product of some highly selective editing. I did my fair share of sitting in front of the TV as a kid, and there weren't actually that many children to play with in my immediate neighborhood. And "kids these days," in spite of all our worries, are still kids and still do the things that kids do.

But one thing I can say for sure is that childhood is alive and well here in the tree streets. Every time I step outside - to walk my dog, to go to work, to get the mail, to take out the trash - I see kids doing exactly the things kids should be doing. They're playing in the yard and riding bikes and forming alliances with the kids next door and splashing around in the river of water that gushes through the gutter every Monday. I sometimes feel as though I'm living in a movie, like E.T. or The Sandlot, that portrays childhood the way we all know it's supposed to be, and the way so many of us remember it, no matter what generation we're from. I love it. With no nieces and nephews yet, and having spent the last 12 years in various singles wards, I have had a severe dearth of children in my life.

A couple snapshots, both from yesterday:

While I was walking home from campus after work, I spotted two little boys on the corner of Briar Avenue and Cherry Lane, with a posterboard sign and what looked like a pile of paper and BYU Bookstore bags on the ground behind them. They were waving their sign at cars and calling out to walkers, and I could tell they were selling something, but there was no lemonade in sight.

So when I reached the corner, I asked.

"Paper airplanes!" replied the older of the two boys. (The younger of the two kind of stood back during the entire exchange, alternating between curious and distracted.)

"How much are they?"

He took the sign from his brother and held it up and pointed at the prices. The sign had a crayon picture of a purple fighter jet (I think), some random squiggles, and two prices written in smallish letters at the top. He pointed at the prices in turn. "The easy ones are 5 cents, and the hard ones are 10 cents."

How could I pass up a deal like that? I requested two of the hard ones. The easy ones (your standard paper airplanes, made from white office paper) were lying in a haphazard pile on the ground, but the hard ones (some special folding pattern, and made from construction paper) were carefully stowed in the BYU bags. He chose a black paper airplane and a yellow one and handed them to me, and I dug a quarter out of my wallet, and his eyes grew wide.

"A quarter!" he said, almost reverently, and I told him he could keep the change, and he informed me that they were selling the paper airplanes so they could buy a Lego set. "Probably a Star Wars one." I wished them luck, and went home very happy.

A little later, as I returned from walking Jin, I found the redheaded 5-year-old who lives next door perched on my driveway at the top of the stairs leading to my apartment. We haven't talked much yet, he and I, but a week or so ago we made our first acquaintance when he came and peered curiously and unabashedly into my living room window to see the dog that I'm sure he had already seen at a distance. ("He's not shy," his parents told me recently.)

"Well, hello there," I greeted him.

"Hi," he said, looking at my dog, and then looking at me, and then looking back at my dog. I assumed he was there to pet Jin, but he shied away when I offered.

"Guess what?" he asked.

"What?"

"I went to school today, but I only go in the afternoons. Guess what?"

"What?"

"We have three playgrounds at school. One of playgrounds has a fence and one of the playgrounds doesn't have a fence and the other playground also doesn't have a fence."

"Wow, three playgrounds? Do you get to play on all three?"

"No, when I'm at school I only get to play on two of them, but when it's not school I can play on all three, but when I'm at school I can't play on the spiderweb, but when it's not school I can play on the spiderweb, because my teacher won't let me play on the spiderweb, but when it's not school I can play on the spiderweb. Guess what?"

"What?"

"My teacher's is named Ms. Reed. I like her."

At that point Jin saw a cat cross the driveway and darted, startling my new friend, and with Jin straining and yelping, I had to cut the conversation short and take him back inside. But I'm pretty sure we'll be able to pick it up again eventually.