If you know my husband and I, then you know we are opposites. And never is this more apparent than in our styles of parenting. I accuse Chris of bubble wrapping our children which will inevitably deprive them of the fun of normal childhood experiences, as well as oxygen.
He accuses me of being a heartless dictator trying to toughen them against this cruel, hard world… who hurls them into the trees and then takes away the ladder so that they can prove their mettle by shimming down like Katniss in the hunger games. Neither picture is really accurate, but truthfully, together we create a balanced approach.
“Mommy, I fell!” screams Evie.
“Is it bleeding?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Is it an artery?”
“What’s an artery?’’
“You’re fine. Go play.”
“But I need a Band-Aid.”
Band-Aids mean less blood stains on clothing, but they don’t make boo boos feel better. One day they will realize that Band-Aids are as ineffective as my magic kisses, which they stopped believing in long ago.
“Okay, go get one.”
“I don’t know where they are.”
“Then look in the bathroom.”
Now by this point, they’ve forgotten entirely about the miniscule, little scrape which takes a flashlight and a magnifying glass to identify. They're crying because mommy won’t be their servant and get the dang thing for them so they can just keep playing.
“Nope. Get it yourself.”
“But I want to keep jumping!”
“See, you do not need a Band-Aid. Stop it!”
I get annoyed by these little episodes. But Chris usually responds with more patience. He’ll grab Evie’s leg, and say, “Oh no! Doctor! Quick! We need to amputate this leg! Grab the chainsaw!”
Now she’s giggling while Dad is pinning her down and trying to saw her legs in half. (Ten points for Chris!)
I know, I know - I sound like one heartless momma. But in my defense, when my kids get paper cuts, they act like war victims suffering through unmedicated leg amputations.
But today Evie did something which really shocked me: She learned to roller skate.
Perhaps this sounds like a small thing to other parents. But this is the kid who had too much fear to go down a slide until she was nearly four. The girl who sat alone in preschool, crying and covering her ears. Every day the South African teachers had to pry her out of my arms because she had extreme separation anxiety and clung to me like white on rice. (This is a southern expression meaning “inseparable” because you can’t separate white from rice. And Southerners don’t eat brown rice. Or kale).
In past years, we tried to teach Evie to swim but she hated the sensation of water on her face. And she’s always had somewhat delayed motor skills, so kicking her feet while moving her arms just seemed like an impossible task. This year, she ripped off her pink floaties and declared, “I’m jumping in the deep end. I can do this!” We were nervous. But she jumped in and flailed her scrawny limbs like her life depended on it (because it did). I could tell this was torture for Chris, who wanted to jump in and rescue her, but I whispered in his ear gently, “don’t you dare.” Then she did it again and again and again. And after a few weeks of this, plus some lessons, she was swimming. She has all the grace and form of a wounded goat trying to escape a crocodile - but she’s doing it.
After swim lessons came art camp. Evie held my arm shyly then said timidly, “bye, mom.” Then she went up to a table full of strangers and introduced herself. She didn’t know anyone at this new place. She loved it and made perfectly acceptable, mediocre art.
After art camp came the vacation Bible school, where volunteers dressed up in Hawaiian shirts and inner tubes around their waist, as they sang and danced to kitschy beach-themed jingles about Jesus. This was also a real milestone, because Evie had never been to this church before and she only knew one other kid. This time, she just said “See ya, Mom” and ran off with her friend. At the end of the week, a leader in a hula skirt approached me and said that Evie had led everyone in prayer and in the pledge to the Bible. One of the leaders had also offered a hundred dollars to any kid who could name all sixty six books of the Bible. Evie volunteered, but when he asked, “Are you sure you can?” She answered nervously, ‘I think so…” and he moved on with the lesson. No doubt he didn’t really want to lose $100. (Too bad she didn’t assert herself more, because she absolutely could have won that money. It could have helped pay for her insanely expensive private school uniforms! That’s at least two pairs of monogrammed gym pants!).
I’ve been noticing these changes all summer. But today she really floored me.
She and her two besties went to the skate rink for the first time. Those friends didn’t know how hard it was for her to put on socks before putting on skates. I sent her a look of understanding and she glanced back like, “it’s okay mom. I’m still going to do this.” Then she hobbled out there like an old woman with a broken hip, bent over and falling every ten seconds. They all clung to the wall at first, but Evie kept letting go. I held my breath waiting for her to break an ankle. But she didn’t. One time her friend fell into her, and she fell into the other friend, and the three of them were just lying in a pile unable to get up. The other mom ran over to them in a panic, but I just couldn’t stop laughing. She eventually got up and was only eager to go faster. She quickly built-up confidence and was skating better than the other kids, not because she has any true skating ability but because she refused to be scared. I watched from the sidelines in awe.
She is one very tenacious little girl.
Chris thinks that she gets this from me, but I don’t think so. I was a shy and socially awkward kid, and it took until my twenties to feel comfortable in my own skin. I was, according to my parents, stubborn as a mule and directly responsible for my dad's baldness and my mom's silvery highlights (Just don’t blame me for your missing prostate and gallbladder, Dad, because those are not on me).
No, Evie is braver and bolder than me. She sings loudly. She dances without inhibition. She’s the one excitedly raising her hands in class with pursed lips trying hard not to blurt out all the answers. She’s the one to whom teachers say, “Thanks, Evie, but let’s let someone else have a turn.”
Right now, she’s falling over her skates. But one day she’s going to fall in love. She will face rejection or get her dreams crushed, and we’re going to want to cover her with a helmet, some knee pads, and maybe a generous roll of bubble wrap. It won’t seem like a terrible idea, then. If a boy breaks her heart, I’m not sure I could keep myself from breaking his knees. I’ve had my share of trauma, heartbreak, and disappointment and if I could spare my kids from all of it, I would.
But I know these scraped knees are just the training ground for bigger things. Maybe this is parenthood: it’s feeling a knot in the pit of your stomach, holding your breath, saying a hail Mary, and flinging your kids out into the real world. It’s watching them fall down, get up, and fall again. It’s accepting the bloody noses and broken hearts because they have to grow into independent humans. It’s recognizing your own incompetence and getting your knees dirty in prayer, entrusting them to the only One who is truly capable to protect and guide them.
But if today is any indication, maybe I can take a chill pill, because this girl is going to be alright.
-----
If you liked this, click the heart below and subscribe to receive more stories :)
Commenti