The best thing my parents ever did was kick us out of the house.
I get strange looks when I tell people that. I think they picture 5 barefoot innocents roaming and starving. They half-laugh uncomfortably in hopes that I’m kidding. Then that blatant pity stare washes over their faces. They want to pat my back sympathetically like a wounded puppy, and I just keep jabbering, telling fondly of nights out climbing trees to cheat at Flashlight Tag, days trekking through big, sweeping fields to get to the river, the thrill of cold splashes and the mystique of rusted out trucks and crumbling barns grown down into the earth. When I get to the part about rainy afternoons spent swooshing pennies across the kitchen table (choreographing the coins to radio pop) I notice they’re sufficiently horrified. I change topics: sports teams, sports teams, weather.
Don’t go too hard on my parents for forcing us outside.We had shoes, and bikes, and…
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