Learning is a risky business.
I have a vague suspicion that modern parenting culture would consider parts of my child-rearing philosophy somewhere between “concerning” and “unhinged renegade.”
When my children were about seven and ten, we made tiny bows and arrows out of hair clips, floss, and matchsticks. I found instructions buried somewhere on the interwebs.
We dipped cotton tips in kerosene, lit them, and fired flaming projectiles at a cardboard castle we had built earlier that week in the backyard.
Before anyone contacts local authorities: it was winter, the castle was sitting on brick paving, the hose was nearby, and I was supervising closely while quietly questioning my own judgement and/or sanity. We had a grand time.
Also, in fairness, the castle had it coming.