Reason #1283948 why kids today are pussies.
I tried calling my mom a few days before Mother's Day to, like, wish her a good one or something, but she didn't answer, so I gave up after one attempt. Hey, I tried. I believe that my efforts as a son are directly proportional to her efforts raising me when I was young. SNAP BURN SNAP. I kid. There are no hard feelings. Really!

Yesterday, I read this article in the LA Times and it reminded me of a good story:

In March, Lenore Skenazy, a New York City mother, gave her 9-year-old son, Izzy, a MetroCard, a subway map, a $20 bill and some quarters for pay phones. Then she let him make his own way home from Bloomingdale's department store -- by subway and bus.

Izzy survived unscathed. He wasn't abducted by a perverted stranger or pushed under an oncoming train by a homicidal maniac. He didn't even get lost. According to Skenazy, who wrote about it in a New York Sun column, he arrived home "ecstatic with independence."

His mother wasn't so lucky. Her column generated as much outrage as if she'd suggested that mothers make extra cash by hiring their kids out as child prostitutes.

But it also reinvigorated an important debate about children, safety and independence.

Reader, if you're much over 30, you probably remember what it used to be like for the typical American kid. Remember how there used to be this thing called "going out to play"?

For younger readers, I'll explain this archaic concept. It worked like this: The child or children in the house -- as long as they were over age 4 or so -- went to the door, opened it, and ... went outside. They braved the neighborhood pedophile just waiting to pounce, the rusty nails just waiting to be stepped on, the trees just waiting to be fallen out of, and they "played."

Okay, my mother will never retroactively win any awards for parent of the year -- in fact, her style was, shall we say, borderline negligent -- but I can remember a very specific instance from when I was no older than 5, where I was getting really hungry and needed to eat. Normally I'd scavenge the kitchen looking for ham or bread or cereal, but we must've been out of everything on this day. So I went into my mom's bedroom where she was sleeping (she was always sleeping during the day on account of working nights as a blackjack dealer. Also, I've probably mentioned this before, but I inherited her love of hibernating. Evidence: I slept 20 hours from Saturday afternoon to Sunday afternoon. I'm half Asian and half bear.) and woke her up and told her I was hungry. My mother, bless her heart, reached into her purse and pulled out $10 (back in 1985 that was a lot of money, right?) and told me to go down the street to the Kentucky Fried Chicken to get myself something to eat. Now, before you start jumping to conclusions thinking "terrible parent this" or "worst mom ever that", rest assured that I have other stories I can tell you where you can think that. This is not one of them. Before she sent me out, she gave me some valuable instructions though. Don't talk to strangers, and come straight home. Oh, and pick her up some food, too. I was going anyway, right? And with that, I tucked that $10 bill into my sock and was off.

I arrived at the KFC -- I don't even think I had to cross any major streets -- and I'm pretty sure I didn't understand how to read the menu, so I just pointed at stuff in the glass case and asked for some chicken. I handed over my money, assumed that I was being given correct change, and promptly put that money back into my sock. (I carried all of my money around in my sock for years, by the way. My money had a tendency to smell like feet that way.) Then I carried my food home and ate it in front of the TV. And you know what? I thought all of that was normal! It never entered my mind that I could've been kidnapped or molested or worse. I had no fear! I was excited because I was getting to do "big boy" stuff! My mom's methods might not have been the greatest, but she instilled independence in me at an early age that I'm sure has helped me throughout my life. And I think I turned out all right! I mean, I didn't end up on a milk carton! So, thanks mom! You're the best!