For the Village that Raises My Children

Even larger than life and clocking in at the 97th percentile for his size, my sweet 4 year old isn’t exactly a risk taker. Sure, sure, he’ll jump on my couches until I holler at him not to. But when he finally does get off the couch, he doesn’t jump off – he sits carefully and then stands before running off to cause havoc elsewhere.

He doesn’t like fast slides. He doesn’t jump from most heights. He never wants me to push him too high on the swing. And he certainly won’t get on any semi-fast rides at Busch Gardens.

No way.

He thinks the hill we drive up and down on the drive home from school is a roller coaster. I’m not joking. He even puts his hands up and yells “Weeeeeeeee!!!!!….” So thrilling. Clearly.

My wild child.

So when I signed him up for gymnastics, I assumed this would be a challenge for him. He would have to jump off things. He would have to tumble and feel a little rush of adrenaline and trust that he was safe. He would have to consider the risks of falling and get past them. And when he saw the facility, he was excited to do it. But when I saw the height he’d have to jump off or the slide he would need to go down, I wasn’t so sure.

Yeah, well, with me locked up on an observation deck, behind a glass pane – he did it. He did it fearlessly. He did it proudly. He did without any of my coaxing at all.

I was shocked. And proud. So proud.

And then later introspective.

What is with that? What is with my kids not doing things for me? What is with their nerves and demands that they can’t do it, no way, and that was final.

And then doing it for someone else?

It was his first teacher who finally sealed the deal with potty training. Not me.

It was his father who finally got him to put his face in the water and keep it there. Not me.

It was this gymnastic teacher, who he knew for 15 minutes, who got him to jump off a big red square and balance himself high up on a bar with his arms locked. Not me.

No way.

And it is moments like these which remind me of the importance, the sheer significance, the enormous value other adults, teachers and family members have on my children’s lives.

Because here’s a news flash: No matter how much I think I know best as their mother, I can NOT teach them everything. Not by myself.

No way.

They respond differently to other adults. They have different expectations of themselves. They become different kids with other people. I am their mother and they can be my little babies when they are with me. I am their safe place. Its ok to show vulnerability with me. But for new people, interesting people, different people, challenging people – my children see something new. And they suddenly expect greatness from themselves.

I can love them so completely and entirely – but I can’t fulfill their learning to it’s entirety.

No way.

And I know this might be very obvious to most readers. I know this is a naive realisation. And if its any comfort, its not the first time I’ve realized this. But its just another reminder to let them go. Shove them out of that nest and let them fall and fall and be a little scared and even if I don’t think they will be brave enough to land on their feet, everyone else does. And they do. And I am left amazed once again.

I adore and thank every teacher, adult, coach and family member who has more confidence in my children than I do. You are changing my children. You are making them more than I could ever make them.

Thank you.

Mothering is a mind-blowing experience. Kind of like that hill I drive up and down on the way home from school. Weeeeeee!!!!!!

But will I be any less surprised the next time my children do something for another adult with confidence and flair – something that they swore they could never do, would never ever do, for me?

No way.