Guardians Of Our Galaxies

Several months ago, a woman phoned my house and spoke briefly to my husband. He hadn’t met her before, but her message to him – to us – was an important one. This one phone call and the reason behind it was a parenting shake-up. It changed the way I think about my parenting methods – it also changed the way I think about the fellow parents in my midst.

These guardians of my galaxies.

Celeste* is the mother of a child in my daughter’s class at school. My child shared something with hers – about a person she had met online. She was upset about a particular conversation she and this online friend had. It was clearly something weighing on her mind – that she needed to talk to someone about.

And even though both my husband and I consistently talk to our daughter (with all of our children) about online friendships. And even though we consistently remind our kids that we are here for them (both verbally and by actually being here for them); and even though we are two approachable individuals who bend over backwards to stay connected to our kids and what’s important to them; and even though this situation required the guidance of an adult.

She didn’t come to us.

Had it not been for Celeste taking the time to look our phone number up and make the call – we wouldn’t have had a clue that anything was bothering our kid. Let alone have had the opportunity to talk to her about the situation and help her figure it out.

Time and again, we have explained to our kids that when something doesn’t sit right with them, makes them uncomfortable or upset, when they are dealing with something they are ill-equipped to handle – it is their responsibility to tell a trusted adult. If not me or my husband, then another relative, a teacher, a friend’s parent.

The fact that my daughter’s friend at school recognized that this situation required an adult’s insight and had the wherewithal to turn to her own mother drove our point home better than any lecture from us ever could.

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I was thankful for Celeste. Not only because of her obvious concern for my child’s well-being. But because I’m not sure many other parents would have gone to similar lengths to ensure my child was safe – and that we were aware of the situation.

Had it been me in Celeste’s shoes, I’d like to think I would have done the same. And maybe I would have.

Or maybe I wouldn’t have.

Not long ago, it took a village to raise a child. My own parents could rest assured that whether I was at school or a friend’s house or even out on the street, there would be a community of adults checking up on us.

Somewhere over the past 30 years, this community of concerned parents has slowly dispersed. Maybe in part due to the ubiquity of cellphones lulling us into the belief that safeguarding our kids is at their very own fingertips; maybe due to the general busy-ness of most modern families – who just don’t possess the spare time or energy for others; or maybe the majority of us harbour the broken notion that our parental over-involvement doesn’t leave room for a child’s secrecy or privacy.

An isolation effect has occurred within society – and each family drifts along in their own little bubble – reluctant to pop or be popped.

And – I’m just going to say it – I have discovered that parents can be a highly sensitive, emotionally charged and insecure bunch. This may very well be the number one deterrent for even the most well-intentioned person from expressing concern about another child.

The events involving Celeste and her phone call brought me back to another situation with another child in another time. An earlier occasion where I was bailed out by a concerned parent. While with Celeste, I didn’t even realize I was in need of help – in this case I knew it – and I asked for it.

It was a sticky Windsor summer in the mid 1980s and two 13-year-old girls got themselves into a bit of a bind.

My parents were heading out to a movie with another couple. The friends arrived to pick my parents up and in the process dropped their two girls as well as the girls’ grandmother at my house. The plan was that while our parents were out for a night on the town, the kids (and babysitting grandma) would watch a movie and keep each other entertained.

But this just didn’t cut it for the two teens involved. So before our parents skedaddled, we secured permission to walk the half kilometre to the nearby McDonald’s for a snack – something the two of us did almost every time this particular family visited. We’d exert our age-appropriate level of independence by walking up to the McDonald’s, maybe meet up with some other like-minded kids, eat some fries and head back home.

After the parents left for their night out, we grumbled about our paltry plans – walking to and from the local McDonald’s was old hat. We needed some excitement. And so a plan was hatched.

Before leaving for our “walk”, we told our younger siblings and the mindful grandma that we would probably be longer than usual – we would be meeting friends at the McDonald’s and would most likely sit around snacking and chatting.

Once outside, we made a beeline for the bus stop at the top of my street. And when we saw the tell-tale beast rumbling toward us, we hopped on – heading toward a night of thrilling (and parentally forbidden) independence. As exciting as that ride was for the two of us, the majority of it was spent crouching down praying that no one we knew would see us and report back to our parents.

Fifteen minutes later, we disembarked onto the downtown strip. I’ll admit, the adventure thus far was bittersweet for a goody-two-shoes like me. It’s difficult to completely enjoy an experience when deep down you know it’s unsanctioned and were we to be caught, punishment would be harsh.

We hurriedly walked up and down the street amid the crowds of older teens, young couples and parents and children. We bought ourselves ice cream cones at the much more exciting downtown McDonald’s so there was an element of truth to our outing. And then, our out-of-bounds adventure fulfilled, we began walking back toward the bus stop to head home.

That’s when we saw it.

The movie theatre – where our two sets of parents were sitting in the dark watching a film while the two of us underhandedly gallivanted right under their noses.

We hurried to the bus stop and waited – and waited. An extreme amount of time passed and still no bus appeared. Our nervousness was quickly turning into full-fledged panic – so we put some distance between us and the theatre by walking to a farther bus stop – all the while keeping our eyes peeled on the road.

We passed some adults and asked them if they knew about the bus schedules. They told us it was a holiday weekend (either Canada Day or the Civic holiday – I can’t remember which) and the buses stopped running early. The bus we had hopped on in order to begin our adventure – had been the final one of the evening.

Our stomachs dropped. There was hand-wringing and tears. Not only did we need to figure out how to cover the eight kilometre distance between where we were and where we needed to be – but now our quandary included doing so without having our parents drive by us on the way!

We discussed our options:

• We could hurriedly walk home – but it was doubtful we could do so before our parents’ return. Or before my friend’s worried grandma called the police.
• We could hail a cab – except for the fact that our meagre bus fare didn’t come close to the money required to do so.
• We could head to a pay phone and call someone to pick us up. But a quick inventory of everyone we knew old enough to drive included mainly direct relatives and/or friends of our parents who would more than likely rat us out.

But there was somebody. It seemed like a long shot, but to two desperate teenagers, a long shot was better than a month’s worth of grounding.

There was a couple that lived down the street from my friend and from time to time she would babysit their children. If we could find a public phone booth with an intact phone book attached to a chain (remember these!), we could look up their phone number and see if either the husband or wife was available to pick us up. Not only was my friend certain they would if they could – but she was pretty confident they wouldn’t squeal.

Over the course of the next several minutes, we happened upon a Mac’s Milk with phone booth and chained phone book out front. While I thumbed through the pages, my friend dug up a precious quarter to make the call (this spent quarter would mean that even if a bus somehow magically appeared, we would no longer have the required fare). I recited the number and she dialled.

The husband answered – his name was Dennis. Clearly holding back tears, my friend gave him a brief rundown of our situation, then she listened quietly before telling him where we were. She hung up and we waited.

Dennis pulled up less than ten minutes later. I remember he had a cigarette dangling from his mouth – and that our “dire” situation appeared to amuse him. My friend and I fell into the backseat in relief and poured out our thanks to him. He chuckled and said something along the lines of: “Listen – I don’t need to know the details. I’m just glad you phoned me and that I can help you two out.”

He dropped us off at the top of my street – exactly where the traitorous bus would have. And as the two of us walked back to my house, we wondered aloud if Dennis would ever breathe a word of this to my friend’s parents. (Spoiler alert – he never did.)

We walked in the door. Our younger siblings were engrossed in the Michael J. Fox movie Teen Wolf and eating popcorn. Grandma was dozing on the couch. No one even blinked.

Only as a parent myself – can I truly look back on this memory and appreciate Dennis – a trusted adult in my best friend’s life who came through for us when we found ourselves in a bit of trouble. He was willing to take time away from whatever he had going on during a summer holiday weekend to pick up two wayward girls and deposit them to safety – no questions asked.

Would I do the same for someone else’s child? Without fear of reproach? Without any judgement?

I will now.