I'm going for a walk, Max said

"I'm going for a walk," Max said, as if it were no big deal. It started a couple of weekends ago. Sabrina and I were arguing, and Max didn't want any part of it. But instead of chilling on our front porch, as he likes to do when he needs a break from family drama or just wants to be alone, he'd decided he was taking a walk. We stepped onto the front porch.

"Where do you want to go?" I asked. Max gestured around the corner.

Max had never been beyond our block by himself.

A lot of thoughts went through my mind, scary ones. Max knows not to talk to strangers. But would he walk further away than he was supposed to? Could he fight off a creep in a car if one tried to abduct him? There was that story about that young boy in Brooklyn, NY, whose mom let him walk home alone from camp for the first time and a deranged man lured him to his apartment, hacked him to pieces and stuffed him into a refrigerator. My mind is a repository of awful things that have happened to children.

My main reassuring thought: Max recently got an Apple Watch and we now can track him via the Find My Friends app. My other, somewhat less reassuring thought went something like this: Max is not such a lightweight. When you lift him, he is dead weight because his body just sort of sags into you. So maybe his cerebral palsy would save him from a Bad Guy.

I know, I know: Total and utter mom paranoia.

To Max I said, simply, "Yes, you can take a walk. Just look both ways, OK?"

I thought about posting a heads up on our local neighborhood Facebook group. And then, I held back. I decided to let him go it truly independently.

Max carefully walked down the steps of our porch and took off, grinning. I watched till I couldn't see him anymore, my heart twinging. I kept my eyes glued to Find My Friends, following the orange dot that was Max, until I got distracted by my fight with Sabrina. Then I realized I've gotten a series of texts from a neighbor:

Max is out walking by himself. Is this cool with you? 

Just checking I've never seen him take a walk alone. 

Now he's walking home, and he seems fine! His independence is awesome! Sorry I'm just watching out for my neighbors, don't mean to pry. 

I told the other mom that it was nice of her to check on him. A couple minutes later, I saw orange dot headed home and stepped onto the porch. Max still had that big grin still on his face.

Phew. 

Letting your child with disabilities flex his independence is really, really hard, as much as you may want it. It takes time to accept that this child you've coddled by necessity for so many years, this child who has been dependent on you for so much, will be OK when you are not right there to look after him. It's about baby steps—for your child and you.

A few days later, I was at another neighbor's house and she told me that she also saw Max taking his walk that day and he looked awesome. I beamed at her.

This weekend, Max was out and about again. He'd go a block or two, come back home, then go out and do the same all over again. Each time, I was glued to Find My Friends. Once, when the orange dot seemed to veer slightly off the lines that were streets, my heart stopped—had Max gone into someone's home he didn't know?! But a few seconds later, orange dot was moving again.

Another message arrived from a neighbor. We have an artist in our neighborhood who's built a gigantic skull sculpture. It may not have received the warmest welcome from everyone around here, but it seemed that Max, my friend reported, "was so thoughtfully examining" it and other stuff in this person's yard. I seriously loved that.

Yesterday, Max headed out after he got home from school. I was in the kitchen with Ben when the doorbell rang. It was one of the guys who cuts our lawn, typically a man of few words.

"MAX IS ON THE OTHER BLOCK WALKING BY HIMSELF!" he announced, breathlessly, lit cigarette in hand.

"Yes, I know, thanks—he's good!" I said. "He's a teen. We're letting him take walks."

He nodded, took a puff and took off.

"Thanks again for letting me know!" I said to his back. He waved.

Oh, my heart. This somewhat curmudgeonly dude was looking out for Max.

Yes, it takes a village. And a leap of faith. And repressing your usual mom-of-a-child-with-disabilities instincts. And maybe a nice big glass of wine.