'Go Outside and Play' Is Not A New Video Game

Does anyone know exactly when it was that it became so difficult to just be a kid? Was there some specific moment in time or an incident that caused a ripple in the Great Suburban Conscience that turned everything fun about being a child into something that parents had to worry about? Because I don't know about you but I seem to remember when I was younger that it didn't require a doctor's note, security, protective gear and a social secretary just to survive the first 12 years of life.

Once upon a time, mothers would open their front doors, throw their children out into the yard and simply say to them, "Go play!" And we did.

We would take off and disappear for hours and hours on end. Running through yards. Jumping fences. Hurling ourselves into muddy creeks, shoes and clothing on. Exploring half-built homes and playing on piles of two-by-fours and cinder blocks. Sure, you ended up with a gash or cut every so often. Big whoop. Chicks dig scars.

But these days? If I want the kids to play with other children, phone calls and calendars have to be brought into play. Because you don't "go out and play" anymore. You have to have a "play date" arranged. Then, once all the logistics of the who, when and where are ironed out, you have to then arrange for the children to be delivered and retreived from said play date.  Then, you, the adult, have to spend your whole day working around that block of time in case the child's plans change.

Really? I can't just put my kids out in the yard and let them play? I promise not to leave for Atlantic City for the weekend. I will be right here in the house, just like my parents were when I used to play outside.

And, for Pete's sake, can my kid go out and ride his bike without wearing more padding and protective gear than they did in the movie Rollerball? Knee pads. Elbow pads. Kevlar helmet. Hell, my kid has a better helmet on riding around Lake Hiawatha than the government is issuing to the troops overseas. The poor kid can barely pedal the darn thing because of all the plastic and styrofoam that's strapped to his legs.

You are not a kid until you take a header off your bike while attempting to jump a bunch of Tonka trucks using a ramp you made out of rocks and broken piece of drywall. Every child needs that Evel Knievel moment in his or her life, even if it means ending up on the asphalt with skinned knees and gravel in your hands.

It's hard enough being a kid. It's never been easy and it never will be. Never going to be. So, maybe parents should relax a bit and take off the restraints of societal fears with which we needlessly tie down our kids.

I'd rather my son learn on his own that a pile of rocks are not enough support for that ramp. Because telling him to be afraid of everything won't create a strong adult.