DEAR SPRINGFIELD MAMA

I miss hearing children on the streets—the screech of girls playing chase, the boisterous yell of boys pedaling fast, and the bounce of basketballs against driveways.

When I first quit my job to stay home with my son, I imagined I would soon enter the world I grew up in. I thought the kids were out there playing while I was shut away in an office.

It turns out, they’re not. Somewhere along the way, American childhood moved indoors—into back seats, after-school programs, and gated-off childcare centers.

Today, nearly 70% of American kids live with two working parents. Add in car-centric suburbs, cultural fears about strangers and rapidly increasing screen time, and it’s clear why childhood has retreated far from the front lawn.

For two years, I’ve roamed our small city with my 4-year-old son, wandering from one desolate place to another. The parks are empty. The playgrounds are quiet. We have the library completely to ourselves.

Worrying over my son’s isolation, I joined playdate groups and structured activities like gymnastics and music lessons. But that’s been more scripted than social. Kids barely make eye contact with each other while they’re shuttled into lines, waiting their turn to walk on balance beams or kick a soccer ball. From the sidelines, parents scroll Zillow or doomscroll the news. Or perhaps they fret over the loneliness of it all, while waiting for the next scheduled slot to begin.

At gymnastics and music, we see kids his age. But out in the wild, we’re lone wolves.

A few weeks ago on a warm spring day, I packed a backpack full of toy cars, and we rode bikes to a massive grassy knoll. There, a huge concrete ramp makes for perfect racing. We laid out a picnic blanket and Leo picked wildflowers. Suddenly, I heard a chorus of children laughing and playing. Is there a park nearby? But no, it was a daycare, with sounds from a playground spilling over a massive privacy fence.

I’ve spent months reckoning with what my son’s missing. We go on walks and I crane my neck, hoping we’ll stumble upon another family with kids he might become friends with. I drag my lawn chair to the front driveway while Leo scribbles with sidewalk chalk. I set up obstacle courses in the cul-de-sac, which Leo and I giggle through together.

But still, no one but the mail carrier comes.

I keep wishing some institution would fix this. Perhaps the city could organize public spaces tucked into existing neighborhoods, where children could freely and safely congregate? Perhaps a child-loving HOA will bring parents with young children together? Maybe someone will knock on my door with a clipboard, offering to sign Leo up for…something. But of course, they won’t.

If we want our children to have something freer, wilder, more human than the lines at gymnastics, then we’ll have to build it ourselves.

I don’t know exactly how. But I do know I can start by stepping outside. If we want our kids to stop being lone wolves, we have to be the pack.