Marsh

“What comes after twenty-nine?”

That’s a question raised by Kya, a thirteen-year-old girl who knew more about tides, snow geese and eagles than counting to thirty.

I was reading Where the Crawdads Sing on my Portugal trip, during which we had birdwatching activity at the Tagus estuary, a wetland area similar to where Kya grew up. She learned layers of life - squiggly sand crabs, mud-waddling crayfish, waterfowl - but not a single word because she didn’t attend school.

Kya was abandoned by her mum, siblings one by one and then her dad, shouldering all chores - this little piggy went to market.

No one would take care of Kya. Except herself.

The only way she could make ends meet was to slip out with a bucket and claw knife in the wee hours, squatting in mud to collect mussels. To stay ahead of the other mussel pickers, Kya headed to the marsh by candle or moon, and even added oysters to her catch.

That’s real tough mussel money to earn. I can't imagine how I could have survived in her shoes. Oh, by the way, she walked barefoot and could not afford shoes.

Which is why most of us have a love-hate with helicopter parenting style. A matter of independence versus hyper-sheltering. Honestly, most parents never really want to be too harsh. And who wishes to raise a Kya? I don't either. And fair enough. But it's be irrevocably satisfying, perhaps even gratifying, to see my daughter waking up around seven every morning cooking breakfast during our Portugal stay.