This past summer, I encountered a most spectacular culture clash over one of parenting's heretofore least controversial props: the Cheerio. I found myself on a beach, moderating a discussion between a New York City friend and a Maine woman about the Cheerio vs. the healthy organic Cheerio knockoff. The New York friend had read an article that claimed the Cheerio was designed to dissolve in a toothless child's mouth, whereas the organic knockoff presents a serious choking hazard. I was sheepish on my friend's account—what a ridiculous worrywart issue to raise, particularly given the audience—until the Maine mom met her ridiculousness and raised her one by replying, "But Cheerios have so much sugar!"

Both of these people, I concluded, are bonkers. Still, the conversation, ludicrous though it was, highlighted my lack of parental identity. By becoming an invisible member of both parenting cultures, I was a true citizen of neither. I mean, what would I say poses the greater health risk, choking or sugar? Or should I say, What kind of parent am I? The parent who freaks out about choking hazards and orders all manner of harm-prevention devices from One Step Ahead? Or the parent who ranks sugar above death on her personal list of horrors? Can I be firmly neither and still be something?

I feel the need to decide, because otherwise I'm caught in the socially uncomfortable middle, especially during transitional phases. In the midst of the whizzing cabs, the whooshing subways, and the overly peopled melee of New York, my Maine-style permissiveness can represent a serious misreading of the social context, not to mention the actual physical dangers. During our first geographic relocation as parents—from Maine to Manhattan—we arrived in the city with a totally unvaccinated 4-month-old baby. This wasn't because of any firmly held libertarian conviction; this was by cultural default. I asked my new Manhattan pediatrician in the most unloaded terms her opinion regarding the safety of vaccines. Big mistake. Two years later, even though our daughter was instantly and massively vaccinated, I am still seen by her doctor as the hippie mom who must be cajoled into giving her daughter drugs of any kind.

The most frightening and, yes, shameful moment occurred shortly after our most recent Manhattan re-entry. We hadn't used the stroller in months, and thus my daughter's fascination with it was more gymnastic than vehicular. She'd become a confident climber, so I figured what the heck—let her stand in the stroller backward while I push her across the street. This was in keeping with the Maine "it's a supremely dumb idea, but better you learn that yourself" mode of thought. We made it to the sidewalk—thankfully—before she spun around and fell face-first onto the concrete, where we encountered an insta-witness section in the form of a bus queue. People hurried over to assess the accident.

"How did that happen?" one woman asked, barely audible above my daughter's siren screaming.

"She wasn't strapped in," said another woman. "I don't think she was strapped in."

"She wasn't strapped in," I confirmed.

"I don't understand how that happened," the first woman said, mystified, as though my oversight were beyond her comprehension and the true cause of the accident still lay elsewhere.

"Because I didn't strap her in," I said. "That's how it happened."

I retreated with my screeching, bleeding daughter to our apartment. I hadn't told the mystified woman that I had neglected to strap her in on purpose. If my neighbors in Maine had witnessed my daughter tumble from her stroller, they would have comforted her, and then we'd have had a good laugh about the indestructibility of kids. But in the city, I felt quite viscerally that I'd made a horrible, and horribly reckless, call.

I told my daughter I was sorry, that I'd made a mistake. "But," I said brightly, "at least we learned something." What exactly we learned I'd be hard-pressed to articulate. That New York really is (or feels) more dangerous than Maine, and thus the increased worries over children's physical safety are not only justified but essential? That I'm spineless and can't stand by my own child-rearing beliefs in the face of public disapproval?

But really the question should be, How do these two sets of rules affect my daughter? After all, nothing is stressed more in parenting books than consistency. Children need consistency; if you mess with their bedtimes and their mealtimes, not to mention clothing and physical risk-taking policies, they'll be confused and hard to discipline. My daughter transitions to Maine without much trouble, but coming back to New York is tougher on her, mostly because there's no yard to play in, no little neighbor friends across the street, and no more hanging around with us all day (she shifts back to full-time day care). I can only hope that when she ends up on the therapist's couch—which, as a 75 percent New York–raised child, she inevitably will—she recalls herself as having been a lucky inhabitant of two very different worlds, and her struggles to adapt are viewed from her more adult (read: cheerily circumspect) perch as instructive and soul-strengthening. Like, some would say, a good old-fashioned llama kick.