No cell phones. No ‘stay within earshot' or ‘I need to be able to see you' or ‘I need to meet the parents first' or the one I'm forced to always ask out here in Oregon: ‘Does your family have guns in your home?'

None of the pre-screening, the speed-dating with parents before letting your kids play in highly-structured, diligently- supervised, age-appropriate, gluten-free play dates.

Once I threw out all standards of care, vigilance, fear and structure, we discovered we live in an actual neighborhood with actual neighborhood kids. Once I started flinging open the door and letting Leah out into the (small) world of our backyard, common areas behind the house, cul-de-sac a block away, the Universe opened up. It's like right before you move away from a place you've hated and all the cool women you could have been friends with but never met start leaping out of the woodwork. Or when you really, really don't want to meet a man that somehow the most excellent specimens present themselves at your metaphorical doorstep while you're packing your car to leave the state. (Apparently that's another post percolating...so nevermind.)

Back to my daughter. With all this newfound freedom and unstructured time, our home became Grand Central Station for two distinct neighborhood gangs that emerged. First were The Little Rascals. Led by Liam, a first-grader of few words and a shock of a fiery red-haired Mohawk. His wing man is Leo, next-door neighbor and fellow 1st grader who could sell green to grass. This kid single-handedly sold $37 worth of lemonade and cookies at the gang's most recent operation by standing on the sidewalk, arms full of cookies. When a car even slowed down he'd wave the cookies madly, take theatrically sumptuous bites and moan until the mark put the car in park and said ‘Sold!' Leo was so enthusiastic he even ran home to see if his grandparents would buy his product....they had just arrived from Viet Nam and were napping, despite his numerous attempts to rouse them by waving cookies under their noses.
Next is Jasper, who I still haven't met. He's legendary. When I ask my daughter about him, she simply replies: "Middle School," and shrugs like, ‘enough said.' He has a plastic bb gun. Rounding out the mix is Zooey, who would no doubt be cast as The Little Rascal's daring Darla. She wears only flowing pink or purple Disney nightgowns or pajamas, which she insists are not pajamas but simply "comfortable clothes." She is maybe all of 4, and despite the bowl-cut pixie look, gives me quite the grilling every time she comes by to pick up Leah for another caper and I say Leah is not home.

Sometimes they come to the door, but mostly they stand behind the fence enclosing our backyard, stick their noses through a hole in the wood and sing "Leeeee-yah" in a high-pitched, irresistible chorus. Leah tears out the back door, followed by shrieks and shrills of delight.

And then there's the Babes on Bikes Gang. Three darling girls: sisters Francesca and Vivi, who have chickens in their garage; and then Molly, who is allergic to carrots. Their Siren's Song is equally impossible to ignore. They live across the cul-de-sac and traipse over interchangeably for various and sundry afternoons of bike riding, dress up, rock painting, sprinkler running, tree climbing, whatever whatevering. They bicker endlessly and it's just delicious.

The two worlds collided in a recent entrepreneurial effort Leah came up with as a money-making scheme. The idea, a classic: Lemonade and cookie stand on the corner. The hook? Francesca and Vivi's mom's chocolate chip cookies (semi-sweet, no nuts) literally won ‘Best in Show' at the last county fair. Because this woman runs marathons, swam an international swimming thing in Australia last year, is everybody's favorite 5th grade teacher and does not have an ounce of body fat....she was able to whip up her award-winning cookies while tending her organic vegetable garden and hand painting signs for the lemonade stand. I mixed canned lemonade and presided over quality control of the whole operation.

All the kids sold their little hearts out, Vivi in a pink tutu, Liam directing traffic, Leo hawking their wears, Zooey holding up the sign and bellowing an improvised tune about cookies and lemonade and give us money. My daughter, who is a couple of years and two feet taller than the whole lot of them, managed the whole affair, meted out discipline for over-enthusiasm or safety violations, and controlled the finances. They all left with equal parts cash, competence and promises of bigger and better marketing strategies for the next weekend.

It's always affirming to have research back up your instincts, or make you feel even more right than you even thought you could be. The May 28, 2010 Born For Love blog post by Maia Szalantz and Bruce D. Perry reports that what I feared was my absentee parenting was actually brilliant!! Unstructured play, they write, helpls develop empathy in chlidren. The more kids get to know eachother by simply hanging out, the more empathy they develop.

The third discovery my daughter has made, now that I've abdicated my role as cruise director, is herself. She now spends hours alone, in the backyard digging worms or wrestling the dogs or singing into her ipod or reading trashy teen magazines or writing in her journal or sitting in ‘Woody,' her favorite tree and reading or Harriet-like spying with binoculars or reorganizing her room or pretending to be someone or something or putting on private shows for herself and the dogs or designing clothing by slicing up shirts or tying off sleeves with ponytail holders so everything's a tube top. She bolts into the house for a snack or Windex or a paint brush or dental floss and then, in a flash, is gone again.

I don't ask. She don't tell.

I fling open the door and yell ‘DINNER' and she, and the dogalanche, come running home.