As a parent of the new millennium, I spend a great deal of my time along with an inordinate amount of my money on the contemporary counterpart of “Spare the rod, spoil the child”. My cronies and I espouse the tried and true child-rearing approach, “Keep them busy and they won’t get into trouble”.

Hence, the dance lessons, the soccer leagues, the voice lessons, the trips to Build-a-Bear, three different summer sleepover camps, youth group, and the ever-popular “play date”.

In my formative years, if you couldn’t walk or ride your bike to it, it didn’t happen. In my wildest dreams, I cannot imagine my mother calling someone else’s mother to arrange a “play date”. I was on my own. Yes, it's harsh but I had to actually go out and find something to do…all on my own power.

I can’t say that I’ve spent a lot of time yearning for my childhood. Quite to the contrary, I’ve spent the better part of my adulthood trying to do something different, something better. It is our nature as human beings to want to aspire to greater things. As parents, we want to give our children all those things we felt we missed in our own experience as a kid. I suppose there is nothing wrong with that. Unless, in focusing on giving them what we missed, we fail to give them what we had.

In my 46th year, both of my parents died. They passed away 32 days apart. After 59 years of marriage and four kids, it only makes sense that it would happen that way. And I will admit that there is something sweet and comforting about that. However, the emotional one - two of that kind of punch hits way below the belt. Suddenly, it's as if the history of this family of origin created by these two people flashes before your eyes at astronomical speed. And if you were blessed, as my brothers and I were, it hurts like nothing else because the recall is precious.

In the months since they left, I am taken by how everyday things will evoke memories of my childhood. It is as if the Lord stored away a treasure trove of events and feelings for me in case of a rainy day. I believe that is exactly what it is.

The town where I grew up is on the shores of Lake Michigan. Recently, my children and I were at the waterfront of the lakefront town I now call home. The boats were traversing through the channel from Lake Michigan into the river. In an instant, I was a kid again. I could remember how it felt beating feet down the sand covered sidewalk of Beach Street to the channel between “the Big Lake” as we natives call it and the smaller inland lake. A call would go out among the neighborhood that the Milwaukee Clipper or the occasional foreign vessel was clearing the pier and we’d make for the channel to watch it go through. I could feel how the bottoms of my feet would sting from the concussion of the pavement and see my cousin and I grabbing our sides from running with all our might. More often than not, we’d fail to get there in time and see only the business end of the ship heading into the mouth of Muskegon Lake. But somehow, we still felt like victors. After all, we had at least caught a glimpse. Imagine our glee when we got there in time to wave to the people on deck. I wouldn’t trade that for all the trips to Chuck E. Cheese in the world.

Of course, relating this to my daughters only made them expressionless. I am learning techniques that will enable me to share these stories silently in my head in order to maintain some semblance of cool with my kids.

Recently, one of my brothers and I were at my parents’ house, continuing the odyssey of sorting through a lifetime of belongings. There was laughter, tears, and utter amazement at what they had kept. At one point, my brother called me to look at something in my father’s workbench area. A circa 1968 medicine cabinet, mirrored with two long plastic lights on each side was mounted on the wall. (Dad kept anything that could be repaired; it didn’t necessarily have to be used again. The joy was evidently in the journey.) This particular cabinet stayed on the wall of our bathroom long after it was probably safe to have it near any source of water. One had to hold in the light switch for what seemed like a lifetime until the right light came on; the left one followed some minutes later. But it still served its purpose, the only thing that mattered. Marveling at its survival, my brother noticed it was plugged in. With well-deserved trepidation, he reached over and held in the switch. Voila! The light that had lit all my teeth brushings, my first pimple, all my bad perms, and the trial and error of teenage cosmetics shone bright.

Should my dad have replaced that old thing when it went “on the fritz” as my mother used to say? Probably. Could they afford to replace it? More than likely. Would I replace something in my children’s life that was not quite adequate? Yes. As parents of the new order, are we not expected to ensure all is in perfect working order and up to code? Is it not incumbent upon us to be sure our children are unscathed by the embarrassment of out-of-date appliances and vehicles?

But of course.

Will my children ever share a sweet moment like my brother and I did in front of the old medicine cabinet?

I fear not.

I am in awe of the wonderful source of comfort that now exists for me. So many memories have come fleeting back, and I am captivated by the sensory aspect of it.

That moment at dusk when the streetlights come on and you have to abandon the kickball game in the street or risk the wrath of Mom.

The sound of the local radio station blaring through a speaker while we ice skated under the lights on a frozen pond created by the parks department.

The tranquility of a blanket in the shade on a steaming hot summer day, entire Barbie doll collection spread askew…my mom’s answer to “I’m hot and I’m bored.”

I don’t think our kids will be scarred for life by too many piano lessons or the frustrated high school athlete turned soccer coach. We parents probably won’t end up in a facility for the over-extended, SUV driving maniacs that we fear we are becoming. However, in all our endeavors to keep them well-adjusted and fulfilled, we may be cheating our children out of the most important thing: The chance to just be a kid. The chance to make their own memories, not have them contrived by us. The chance to be comforted by us when we are no longer here to do it.

Sure, I can tell them how much I spent on dance lessons and how much time I spent driving them hither and yon. I can’t put a price on the things that will matter in the end. Believe me, they are truly priceless.

The Gift of Just Being a Kid