Wrestling with Risk as a Parent

My journey to balance my child’s competing needs for safety and autonomy from preemie to toddlerhood

Photo by Lubomirkin on Unsplash

Arriving nearly six weeks before his due date, he caught us by surprise. We weren’t prepared for being thrust headlong into a premature birth experience, and it was a shock as first-time parents. The two and a half week stay in the neonatal intensive care unit (NICU) while he gradually gained the strength and skills necessary to breastfeed without assistance was a vastly different experience than the birth we’d been envisioning. When the water broke so unexpectedly, our dreams of a home birth under the large cedar trees next to our mostly off-grid yurt quickly evaporated.

Despite our initial bewilderment, my partner and I adjusted quickly, molding to the routines of caring for the beautiful little human who had come to join us. At a mere four and a half pounds at his lightest, he was far from the smallest baby in the hospital ward, but still an incredibly tiny being to look after. He felt so delicate and fragile as we figured out how to support his little body with our large hands.

The NICU was mechanical, with its rows of little enclosures and constant beeping, it was a foreign soundscape. This little child had spent his womb time surrounded by the soothing sounds of his parents’ voices and the softness of the forest. We talked and sang to him, cooing while stroking his new skin, letting him know we were there with him, offering what familiarity we could in an unfamiliar place. But ultimately we trusted in his and our own resilience to make it through; if not unscathed, he would at least feel loved and held.

It’s been two years since that challenging childbirth. The tiny baby we so joyously brought home from the hospital with tears softening our cheeks is coming into his own as an increasingly capable and very active little human. My job as a parent has been in flux, from a broadly protective role in infancy, to needing to keep stride with his ever expanding need for independence as a toddler.

If I pause for long enough, I become paralyzed, frozen in my parental role. The magnitude of my influence on this child, this little being who is so precious, can sometimes overwhelm me. His world is still small by comparison, and his growing mind so incredibly impressionable. Every choice I make shapes him in some way. I watch him soak it in, then reflect it back.

I’m often at my growing edge, finding it necessary to reassess my role as caretaker and protector as he seeks new levels of independence. When he was an infant, there was a simplicity to the role of caretaker; I needed to make sure he was fed, changed, and that his needs for sleep and connection were met. But as he ages, I find myself needing to reevaluate how to watch over him while also allowing him a sense of autonomy and the necessary spaciousness to grow and blossom as an individual. But letting go of my baby, stepping back so he can take risks that will allow him to grow and evolve into a capable adult, can be unnerving.

His love of the outdoors and constant desire to be outside are often a source of these worries. When he pulls the lever-handle on the kitchen door and runs out across the covered porch toward our rural yard and the fields beyond, I holler after him.

“Can you stay inside please? I’m cooking breakfast and need you to stay inside right now.”

“No,” he says in a matter-of-fact voice. Following it with a request, “Papa come outside!” but not waiting to see if I’ll follow.

Making his way across the yard, he disappears with surprising speed for someone so small and a touch bow-legged. I’m left alone in the suddenly quiet kitchen. I take the opportunity to sip lukewarm coffee in this moment of relative calm, in between buttering toast and watching over the eggs. A moment of silence in the morning is a serene treat and I soak it in while I can, but a twinge of anxious awareness rises in my stomach not knowing the whereabouts of my child. I trust he will be okay out of my sight for a bit; I have a good sense of how far he feels comfortable roaming on his own. But he’s just two and falls down often, or gets stuck in situations where he needs assistance. Should I finish the eggs first, or pull them off the heat and go out to search for him now? How long is it reasonable to let him roam on his own? That is the question I’m always wrestling with.

He's recently gained an infatuation with splitting wood. I’ve been working with him to learn how to hold the hatchet, laboring to hoist and swing the small axe with both hands. Although he can be impatient, he’s picking up the basics quickly. He understands the powerful nature of cutting tools—hence his keen interest. For the most part he sticks to only using the hatchet on the chopping block. His concentration is unmatched when narrowly focused, and in these moments I’m in awe of the speed at which a toddler can learn new skills, the precision of his aim seeming to improve with each swing.

It takes most of his strength to heft the heavy tool; luckily his small body isn’t yet capable of applying significant force. I would much prefer to be hands-on with him while using any sharp implement, however I trust that if he wanders off to the woodshed alone, he’s unlikely to seriously injure himself before I can catch up. I tend to lean on a combination of trusting my own risk assessment, along with his limited but growing sense of judgment, to assuage my more fearful instincts in these moments.

In late spring an incident occurred when he was learning to climb stairs, still a bit unstable on his feet. The accident happened during a dinner party outside surrounded by a yard full of people, parents and non-parents alike. He was practicing climbing up and down a set of old concrete stairs that led down to a basement. They were steps he had regularly been following me up and down without misstep in the preceding weeks. This time, however, there were other kids involved and lots of excitement.

Within a span of only a few minutes, several of the many gathered adults either checked with me or stepped in because they were concerned for his safety on the steep stairs. I reassured them he was fine, but situated myself closer to keep an eye on the situation without interfering. He successfully ascended the stairs. Then, perched at the top step, he decided to attempt a triumphant jump down onto the walkway. It was a mere four-inch drop, but jumping with both feet was completely new territory for him. He crouched, preparing for the big move, but lost his balance, arms beginning to windmill before he keeled backward and somersaulted down the stairwell. I was close, but not close enough to catch him, instead chasing him as he tumbled down the rough steps. I didn’t manage to break any of the fall, but scooped him into my arms the moment he came to a stop.

There was a drawn-out silence as he inhaled before the wail erupted from his shocked little lungs. Holding him close, I comforted him with all of the fatherly love I had to offer. I was acutely aware of the eyes on us and the supporting role I’d played in enabling the spectacle that had unfolded in front of the small crowd. He wailed for a minute or two, but soon settled and went off to play, adorned with scrapes and fresh bruises swelling on both sides of his forehead. The results weren’t pretty, but fortunately he seemed only to be temporarily phased by the dramatic fall.

It’s moments like these that are painful and cause me a lot of self-reflection. Was I being a good enough parent? Should I have been closer, or not let him play on the stairs at all? Was I being naive about what my dear little human was capable of, or putting him at risk with my unrealistic parental expectations? In these painful moments, I feel the need to reckon with my choices, although I try not to be overly hard on myself, instead trusting that I’m doing my best and learning what lessons I can from the discomfort.

I regularly struggle with whether or not I am straying too far in the opposite direction of “helicopter” parenting. When my toddler runs off on his own, how long does he have to be out of my sight before I begin to worry about him? There are a multitude of potential hazards he could encounter around our rural homestead, from piles of old boards with rusty nails to moving vehicles and farm equipment. It’s easy for my mind to race off into catastrophizing about worst case scenarios; it can be a bit of an obsession for me at times.

But ultimately, as much as I know what my little one is and isn’t capable of, the hazards are real, and he’s still just a little thing, discovering the vast universe around him. So before too long, I drop whatever it is I’m doing and run off after him. His little blond head makes him easy to spot, bobbing away on whatever adventure he’s flinging himself into wholeheartedly.

C. R. Sisson is an amateur writer living on Quw’utsun territory on the west coast of Canada. He is a member of a collective rural land project and spends his time writing, parenting, orcharding, and working on carpentry projects. Intentional community, connection to food, sustainability, creativity, sexuality, and interpersonal relations are primary influences in his life and writing practice.