DEBORAH COPAKEN KOGAN

I wasn't going to post while on vacation, but today's interaction deserves a short mention.

The scene: I'm sitting on the beach this morning next to my daughter. The two of us are reading. Just behind us, near the dune fence, my three year old is lazing in a giant hole my brother-in-law has dug for him. He is happy as a proverbial clam, playing with sticks, talking to shells, digging with a shovel, singing to himself, etc. Not that clams necessarily sing to themselves, but you know what I mean.

Along comes a jogger, a woman, maybe 30 or 35 years old, definitely a mother, I can tell by her clothes. She steps under the umbrella where I'm sitting, meaning, she's less than a foot away from me, in my face. She says, "Don't take this as paranoid or anything, but I don't know if you're aware that your son is sitting in that hole, and we're on the beach." I'm not exactly sure where she's going with this story, so I squint in that I'm-a-little-confused way. Yes, we're on the beach. Yes, my son is sitting in a hole. "The water is really rough today," she says, "and it could come up and drown him." It's high tide; the water is nowhere near us.

"Thanks for your input," I say, fake smiling, wishing I had a copy of my book to hand her right then and there. As she jogs off, Sasha and I burst out laughing.

Really, where does this impulse come from? I'm thinking more and more it's not really about safety but about people believing that children must have constant adult stimulation--meaning, an adult hovering over them--from morning until bedtime. Every study I've read disproves this. Kids need time by themselves to play. To be bored. To learn how to entertain themselves. Which is exactly what Leo was doing while I was reading the most excellent Jonathan Tropper novel, This is Where I Leave You, which I highly recommend, not that I would ever dream of telling you what to read. Or how to parent your kids.