When I was ten, it was 1985. I rode a red bike with a sparkly banana seat and U-shaped handlebars. I rode alongside my sisters down our dead-end street. Down, down to the cul-de-sac. Down a bit more to the second cul-de-sac. Back up again to a field, where we would hunt for grasshoppers and gardner snakes, as we called them, which we put in the neighbors’ mailboxes. Up and down the street we went. Then, the other direction, and over a block to Bob’s Market. We bought packs of Garbage Pail Kids trading cards and boxes of Lemonheads and Alexander the Grape. And my favorite candy bar, the Charleston Chew — the one with the crackling chocolate on the outside and the stretchy strawberry stuff inside.
We were latchkey kids, my sisters and I, and our parents had no idea what we got up to in that delicious in-between time, that time between the final school bell and the sound of the car pulling into the driveway just before dinnertime. Except for that one time, after my older sister and I bought candy cigarettes at Bob’s. Someone from church happened to drive by and see us pretend smoking our candy, and they called our parents to tattle. When I was ten, there was only occasional and random location spotting. When I was ten, there was no location sharing. We did pretty much whatever we wanted to do. No one — and no thing — was available to track us.
Forty years later, my daughter is ten. She’s ten in 2025. And it’s been quite difficult for me to allow her the same freedom of movement I was bestowed with four decades ago. I mean, I don’t really remember feeling like it was a special or particular freedom. I probably would have rather come home to my mom than an empty house, save the barking dachshund yapping at my arrival.
When my daughter was ten, she cycled to school in the morning accompanied by my husband, and I always arrived before the final bell of the day to accompany her back home.
The first time I planned not to pick her up after school, I told her three times to not forget to “drop me a pin” when she left school, so I could watch the little icon move along the map as she ventured home. Because when my daughter was ten, she had her own phone. Most of the time she remembered to share her location with me, but sometimes she’d forget. I would then pace back and forth, looking out the front window for her blue bike to appear in my sight. Nothing ever happened. She didn’t fall, she didn’t get lost, she wasn’t taken.
One day, I suggested she cycle to her afternoon dance class by herself. After an exasperated affirmative, she dropped me a pin, and I watched her go. I stared at the moving icon until it arrived at its destination. Then I watched for it to move again when she headed home. Nothing special happened. She didn’t fall, she didn’t get lost, she wasn’t taken.
I told her the location-sharing, pin-dropping business was for her. Because we love her, and her safety is so important. But it wasn’t for her, was it? What was it for, though? Was it for my own peace of mind? Or was it so that, in case something really did happen to her, no one could accuse me of not paying attention? Did I actually expect something to happen? It didn’t occur to me to think about how she would feel about all this pin-dropping.
One day, she forgot her phone. Or she forgot to drop me a pin. Or her phone was dead. I don’t remember what it was. But I didn’t know where she was, and I was frantic. Even though I knew she knew where she was going, I was frantic. Like every other day, though, she arrived where she was going. She didn’t fall, she didn’t get lost, she wasn’t taken. The next time, I forgot to ask her to drop a pin. And neither of us noticed. And just like that, in this moment that no one even noticed, she transformed into a new version of herself. It was like her arms slid into the sleeves of a grown-up jacket. She stood taller. She wore it proudly. She delighted in this delicious independence. She’d been waiting for it. She was a tween, after all. She likes to remind me she’s a tween.
And just like that, the worry, the pacing, the frantic wondering on my part — just went away. I didn’t expect the pin-dropping, location-sharing business to be so anxiety-inducing. I thought that more information is always better. Now I’m not so convinced. In 2025, my daughter is ten, and she cycles to the store when she wants something. Sometimes she buys a pack of Pokémon cards. She gets herself some candy or ice cream all by herself or with friends. She has fallen a time or two. And she sorted it out for herself. She hasn’t gotten lost — and anyway, she knows what to do if she gets lost. And the only person who’s been taken is me — taken by surprise at how much unnecessary fretting I’ve been up to.
My daughter is ten and has a house key now, and sometimes I’m not even home when she arrives. The house is empty, save the barking of our Labradoodle yapping at her arrival. The symmetry is obvious, but no less satisfying.
Jenn Jansen 