Dneutral Han/Getty Images
Each year, on the first Saturday of December, our town hosts its annual holiday light-up night to kick off the festive season. Our quaint main street is packed with vendors, goodies, local musicians, and reindeer games. Local businesses sling seasonal cocktails for the grownups and set up craft stations for the kids. The town kicks off the evening by welcoming Santa and Mrs. Claus to the town center where everybody cheers as the massive Christmas tree comes to life with thousands of twinkling lights. If I'm being honest, it's a scene straight out of a holiday movie.
My husband and I have been attending this event for a decade, ever since we relocated to the tiny Pittsburgh borough of Bellevue with infant twins and a toddler in tow. Since our first light-up night, the event has grown substantially — and so has our family. I'll admit it hasn't always been easy helping four kids navigate a main drag packed with a couple of thousand neighbors, but we trudge the two blocks to the center of town religiously every year. It's a chance to hug neighbors, let the kids run free, and celebrate the loving community we are so thankful to be a part of.
I often hear other moms bemoan the "loss of the village," and the way modern motherhood can feel insular and lonely. This is true on many levels. Shifts in the fabric of American society have left today's mothers with less support than our moms had, and the 24-hour news cycle has left even more mothers fearful of leaning on their community.
Thankfully, that has not been our experience. While I would like to say we magically found our "village," the truth is that sometimes we have to create one.
It's not easy to lean on neighbors (or strangers), but I've learned over our decade in this little town that people are willing to look out for each other, if you open up your heart and let them.
A few years ago, we briefly lost our youngest child at this very same holiday event. While those moments when she wasn't in our eyesight were terrifying, I knew in my gut during those frantic moments that the adults in our town were looking out for her. As a neighbor I barely knew hoisted my kiddo above the crowd so I could find her, I teared up. This community we are a part of looks out for one another.
Our kids are older now; 13, 11 (twins), and 6. We've given our big three more independence in our walkable town throughout the year. With kid-safe cell phones in hand and kid-friendly debit cards at their fingertips, we trusted our village enough to set them loose on the main street once that giant evergreen was shining brightly at the center of town. While my 13-year-old and one of my 11-year-old twins spent some time with us throughout the evening, our son Ezra disappeared into the festive fray almost immediately. I wasn't surprised. He's extroverted and confident and has never met a festival he didn't love.
For many parents, not seeing their fifth grader for two hours on a dark and chilly evening may induce panic, but this village we've built and come to rely on gave us the confidence to let him test his wings. The location dot on his cell phone let us know he was still at the event, and a few spending notifications told us he was well hydrated and warm, thanks to a pair of LED gloves he purchased from a street vendor.
We heard snippets about Ezra's evening from others. Our town librarian heard the DJ say his name at one point, and another friend let us know he helped pass out raffle baskets to the winners at the end of the evening. A fellow parent let me know she told his friend group to move their horseplay away from some younger kids, and they readily complied. I thanked her for being willing to offer guidance when I didn't have eyes on him. "Sure," she said. "I would want you to do the same if you saw my kid being a knucklehead, too." We laughed, but I know she means it.
Once the festivities had concluded, Ezra sent us a text asking if he could help the adults in charge clean up the event. We often say his big personality is paired with an even bigger heart. Of course we said yes.
Once he finally burst through our front door at the end of the evening, brought home by a friend's older cousin, he was cold and exhausted. It was after 10 p.m. and he crashed quickly into bed. I asked him how his night went since we had not seen him for over two hours. "It was fun," he said. "I think I did everything they had to do." Within minutes, he was out cold.
A few days later, a local photographer shared a photo album from the festivities. Within an hour I had a dozen text messages telling me to take a look. I opened the link and gasped. There was Ezra, on stage, holding a tambourine. The thousand-watt smile on his face says it all. He had the best night. I have never seen a photo that better encapsulates my son.
Modern parenting is designed to provoke anxiety. From online urban legends and hysteria to a general lack of trust in our neighbors, it's easy to give into the temptation to clip our kids' wings and worry about how the world may harm them.
I know the world is scary. I worry every day about my kids' safety. I worry about gun violence, online bullying, and the general divisiveness and hatred that seems to permeate today's culture. Rather than give into the temptation to shelter them at home, though, I've found strength in leaning on our community and working hard to foster independence in our kids. With a bit of help from modern technology and a whole lot of help from trusted adults, teaching our kids to navigate the world on their own feels like the best possible tool we can give them.
