I used to think I could fly. I cartwheeled, plunged, jumped off and over, leaped and bounded without pausing much to look. The kid dancing a jig on top of a barrel rolling downhill? Here. Propelled by what I don’t know. Body chemistry? Youthful bravado? In the emergency ward at the local hospital, they knew me on a first-name basis. Maybe that’s why my mother was always saying prayers.

One winter in Combermere the hill was not quite covered in snow. Scratchy plants and rocks littered its surface. There was a fence not quite flattened, beyond which the water was not quite frozen solid. We called it suicide sliding and raced down that hill for hours, gleefully aiming to clear the fence. At night we skied uphill in the bush.

I can’t remember why. At designated ski hills, we headed for the bumps, jumps and trees, for those twisting, windy trails that dipped and dropped and sent us airborne or flailing. In summer at dawn, as a layer of mist hovered thick as a blanket of clouds above grass, we hurtled on horses, up, up stretching over logs, at full arching gallop. Always full throttle, leaping, straining for sky and willing to test flesh, bone and luck.

Riding bareback in the woods, hell-bent for somewhere, I tumbled from the horse and hit a boulder one grey afternoon in early spring. Sky didn’t crack or the big hand come down to swallow me, but I waited for a breath-held second, looking up. Instead, nurses sang I am Stuck on Band-Aids in the operating room at CHEO. After, undaunted, arm in a sling, I rode my bike fast as I could along the highway to the graveyard for a séance.

So you can understand why I worry. When my four-year-old tried flying from the monkey bars at the park, I had a turn as emergency ward mother. Teeth clenched and arms steady, holding my beloved, sobbing child, I made silent deals with fate: Please keep them safe. I’ll do anything to keep them safe.

When, at age 12 or so, he flew into concrete attempting a trick at a skateboard park, there we were again. Now we have jumped full-swing into the teen years so I am looking (sternly, finger pointed) inside and back. What if my kids are like me? Risk taking is associated with adolescence. What if they act the way I did?

Way back then, my propensity to jump first and look later didn’t manifest itself in risk-taking behavior with lasting consequences. Mostly it amounted to sprains, a few stitches, bruises, a shoulder reattached and a week in the hospital with a roommate whose mother brought us curried rice for lunch. Protective parents, a small-town upbringing in the sticks and opportunities to experience life in positive, active ways helped keep me out of trouble.

I wonder about kids without those safety nets. I wonder about risk tolerance, about the nature of impulsivity and the split-instant compulsion to fly without wings. Really all I want to do is swaddle my kids in bubble wrap, hide them under the towels and tuck them in a locked cupboard until they’re 27. So life won’t hurt them. So nothing bad will happen.

One quick decision can cause irreparable harm. I know that. I know now what my mother knew then: Parenting teens can be hazardous to your heart. She talked a lot to my brother and me about common sense and self-control. I don’t know that I could hear her.

How, I wonder, can I talk that walk with my own kids when, as a teen, I held on barely by the fingernails…to a narrow, crumbling ledge on a mountainside as rock started to give way. With no water, no hiking boots, no rope, I was alone on a rock face that summer day in Banff, having gone the wrong way, gotten separated from my friends and climbed myself into a vast, jagged expanse of cliffs. Ahead I went anyway, up, right to the top. There were clouds and snow and I held on, dizzy, fearing then the wind would send me over an edge into oblivion. Truth is, I was also enthralled.

That’s the scary part.

It took me years, until my mid-20s, to fully comprehend we are earthbound. Bodies break. Life and limbs must be revered. On my 25th birthday I decided I didn’t want to jump out of an airplane after all. Skydiving wasn’t worth the risk. Marriage, motherhood and time helped me settle and grow steady. (It could be argued I’ve solidified, through the ages, into plutonic rock.)

Certainly, in the process, I’ve worked hard to create structure and supports and stability for my kids. Nowadays, I don’t like much risk. I say no. Don’t. There are rules and expectations in this household. Mindful of my past, I aim to channel the kids’ energy – and mine – into healthy, productive pursuits. I talk to my teens, for what it’s worth, and know I am modeling behavior through my actions and choices. That’s terrifying.

But mostly I succeed. Sure I did a face plant while chaperoning the school ski trip and my foot needs to ease up a tad on the gas pedal and and…I think, I pray, I hope, I believe I’ve observed neither of my children has that same drive to jump off a cliff.

It’s there though. I see it in other kids. And I recognize the risk inherent in an instant. What worries me most is the snap-your-fingers time it takes to stay or go, to get in a car or change a teen mind, to say no or yes or maybe later, to tell or not tell or try something at someone else’s urging. Consequences can be harsh or deadly. In their age range, the real-life evidence is all too abundant.

I do know my kids are themselves, not me. They are grounded and goal oriented. Still, I make silent deals in my head and hesitate to risk a leap of blind faith that everything’s going to be fine, thanks.  Instead I wish for bubble wrap.

Do you worry your kids might do what you did?