In the neighborhood I grew up in, the Fourth of July meant one thing — fireworks wars. We did our best to reenact the great battles that won our nation’s freedom.

Triple-digit heat or not, we suited up in our best camo, covered our eyes with sunglasses or goggles (safety first!) and launched hundreds of fireworks at each other.

The first shot that started the years-long battle was simply a misdirected Black Cat that landed too close to a house where three brothers lived. We hollered a friendly “sorry” and thought nothing of it. A few minutes later, they sent a bottle rocket screaming toward our back deck. We then proceeded to launch several in their direction. Without speaking a word, war had been declared.

Soon, we realized that the 75 yards separating our positions was too great a distance for bottle rockets to inflict much damage. So we raised the stakes, firing anything and everything that had a fuse. Some hit their house, some hit them. It was glorious.

But they would not go down without a fight. They snuck along a hedge row close to our property line and launched several volleys our way. Though we hadn’t formally established rules for our battles, we understood that neither side was to leave their fixed positions.

Seeing that the enemy had no shame in guerrilla warfare, we adjusted our strategy as well. We snuck within feet of their headquarters and launched dozens of roman candles into their hiding place. There were screams of pain for sure, but war is war.

While retreating from that raid, I first heard — and then quickly felt — a rocket as it made its way down the back of my camo shirt. It was a searing hot pain that sent me to the ground screaming. As I writhed in agony, I could hear their laughs of victory.

We no doubt lost that first battle, but there would be many others and I like to think we won a few. Our war would continue each Fourth of July and sometimes on New Year’s. We were all well into our teens before we stopped the madness. (My parents were responsible people and didn’t realize these events were taking place. I’m certain they would have stopped it had they known).

Somehow, there were no major injuries through all those skirmishes. Looking back, I’m not sure how we didn’t end up in the hospital. Though it was stupid and dangerous, it was the kind of fun kids don’t have anymore.  Parents have become overly protective and children are losing something because of it. I’m as guilty as anyone.

I worry about my children too much, and spend too much energy keeping them out of harm’s way. Though it’s my job as a father to protect them, they’ll have to experience some pain and fear in order to know how to survive on their own one day. There are life lessons to be learned in dangerous activities like bottle rocket wars.

I’m not suggesting that children should be allowed to shoot fireworks at each other, but we could all probably dial back on the overbearing safety-first-at-all-costs attitude a bit. Sure, there are some things that demand vigilance when it comes to safety, and fireworks is on that list. But there are dozens of other things I should let my children do, even if it means they get scratched and bruised a bit.

Children need the freedom to get scared. They need the freedom to risk getting hurt. While the balance of independence and safety was probably tilted too far toward independence when I was a child, many of us have shifted too far the other way with our own children.

Independence is a valuable trait that will serve children well as they grow older. For children to develop into successful adults, overprotective parents like me will have to be brave enough to let them get scared and maybe even hurt a little.

Luke Horton is the publisher of The Daily Leader.