Living in a dense city centre has been a windfall for Therese and me as parents. North American suburbs are designed to make every destination in the city — school, shopping, church, parks, doctors offices, music lessons — far away and dangerous to get to outside the fortress of a steel automobile. Thus, kids in suburbs can't go many places unescorted, making it harder to teach them independence.
The densely knit neighbourhoods of old European cities are a welcome foil to this model. Because the buses are so frequent and so kid-friendly (a computer-voice announces each stop), Cornelia now braves the city bus to the library and home again on her own. The first time we let her do it (and I admit I was anxious as hell), she came home beaming, almost trembling, with self-satisfaction.
We often send Vanessa with 10 euros and a shopping list to the corner grocery store, which she can walk to in under three minutes. And she loves it! She begs to be sent. "Mom, we're out of sliced almonds. Do you want me to go to the store?"
Their school is just as close, so the girls can walk themselves there and back each day. At 11:47 sharp every morning, whether I've gotten any work done or not, that (damned) door bell rings, and I push the buzzer to let the girls in. From inside the apartment, I hear the street door click open, then the echo of their foot falls as they climb the stairs. I make them lunch, send them to do their homework, then boot Cornelia back out the door for her second half of school. (But not Vanessa, since she only goes half-days. And it's killing me.) With two heavy doors and two flights of stairs between her and the street, I feel safe leaving Vanessa at home while I go pick up Bettina from kindergarten. Bettina hates being picked up, which of course is a great sign. But we miss an awful lot of buses on account of it.
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