Gina R.  taught me to sneak cookies from the kitchen without anyone seeing. 

Anne D.  taught me to knit.  That was a good thing.  She also taught me the forbidden shortcut from school  that cut through the woods we were supposed to avoid because bums lived there. 

Chris C. taught me to french kiss with gum in my mouth.  She also taught me how to shop lift.  And start fires.  Behind our apartment building.

Oona M. gave me pointers on weight loss that would now be considered signs of mental illness.

Lucretia D.  taught me where to get pot in my snooty prep school.  (I never bought it myself and never tried it, but I went along for a buy or two.) 

Cathy H.  taught me that I could tell my parents I was going to a friend's house when I was actually planning to drive half-way across state with the friend, so that she could see her boyfriend who worked as a carnie with one of the less respectable of the traveling carnivals. 

My mom found out about the fires when Chris and I were brought home by a very unhappy fireman.  Mom never knew any of the rest.  Not for sure anyway.  She may have suspected I was the cookie thief.  She certainly never suspected I learned my sweet-swiping skills from Gina.  And, truth be told, I never told her the fire was Chris's idea.  I may have been an arsonist, but I was no kind of traitor. 

When I lived under her roof, Mom knew all of my friends.  She knew them well enough to know they were not always examples of perfect behavior and positive influence.  She also knew me well enough to know no one could talk me into doing anything I didn't want to do.   I was not  a bad kid.  I did well in school.  My parents were proud of me.  I could be taken out in public without embarrassment.  Not much anyway.  Most importantly, mom knew she had raised me right.  She knew she had taught me what I needed to know to not get myself arrested or killed or pregnant.  
 
Mom trusted me.  
 
Fast Forward 30 or more years.  It's 2009 and I have a daughter of my own, one who is older than I was when Gina and Anne were my best friends, as old as I was when Chris and I started the fire.  Su is only a couple of years younger than I was when I met Oona and Lucretia and Chris. 

All of this makes me very, very nervous.

I trust my child.

Last night, we watched Growing Up Online, a Frontline documentary.  As much trouble as I got myself into and got led into by friends, it doesn't compare to the trouble Susie could get into if she put even half her mind to it.  Being able to network and talk and plan online makes it so much easier for kids today to go astray.  They have many, many more opportunities for mischief than I ever did.  Computers and the internet provide kids with a seemingly safe haven for trying out questionable behaviors.

I know the dangers lurking online, so there are rules in our house.  There will be no internet in the bedroom til Su goes off to college.  I monitor the sites she visits and have software installed that tells me what I need to know about Su's online activities.  She has no MySpace or Faceook accounts.  She is not allowed to use IM or any site that has chat.  

Unfortunately, rules won't always keep my daughter safe. 

At  9 years old, I knew for sure that the path through the woods was off-limits.  That didn't stop me from using it.  And, although no one ever actually said to me, "Stephanie, you are not allowed to start fires behind our apartment building,"  I was aware of an unspoken rule against arson.   I knew that buying weed was illegal and that my parents would flip if they found out Cathy and I were in Sarasota with a pair of 25-year-old roustabouts.  I knew the rules, spoken and implied.  Still, I did what I did.

I don't worry about the things I can predict and control.  It's the things I cannot predict, the behaviors I will not see, and the choices beyond my control that scare me. 

I never committed a dangerous deed while my parents were watching.  So the key to keeping my child safe is the same now as it was when she was a toddler, constant supervision.  If I never let her out of my sight, she'll never be in danger. 

Right? 

Of course, right. 

The problem is she isn't a toddler.  She is a young woman and she needs a certain amount of freedom.  Young women don't become wise women from being over-sheltered.  It takes making some bad choices to teach us how to make better ones.  My parents gave me enough freedom to grow and, yes, that was a dangerous parenting choice.  I could have died in a fire or been raped by carnies.  I might have been arrested in a drug bust or french kissed a boy who would have slit my throat because he didn't like my kind of bubble gum. 

Giving our children freedom is dangerous.  Every time they step out the door without us, we are trusting the universe to keep them alive until they come home.  Every time we let them go online, we are trusting that we have talked enough with our kids and that we are vigilant enough to keep them from harm's way. 

Parenting requires an awful lot of faith.  Faith in our kids and in their in good fortune.  Faith that other parents are raising their kids well.  Mostly, faith in ourselves.  

Ugh.