So one of the things I've always hoped for my boys is that they would be brave too. Not because I had some great need to see my toddlers scale their outdoor playhouse, but because I've always believed that being brave means the world is wide open to you. Being brave gives you the guts to explore and know what exists outside your own realm. Being brave makes you curious, eager to see what's at the top of that peak, or to ask the tough questions that you might not always like the answers to. Being brave means you're not afraid to fail, as long as you tried. It means you see all of the opportunities that life has to offer, and you seize them. And that's what I want for my boys--for them to live their life to the fullest, wherever that path may lead.
Unfortunately though, as much as I want my kids to be brave, being their mother makes it scary. Sure, I was all gung-ho for bravery, until they were climbing their own dresser as babies, and later, scaling two-story rock walls without a harness. I keep thinking my fragile mama heart isn't meant for this and yet, I watch, from a distance. I step back and I watch, because I know that in order to let them thrive, I have to let them try, without me hovering over, or really, below them. They have to do this without me.
So, in my seven years at this mothering thing, I've learned that bravery is part of the job. As most moms can attest, we're always trying to see ten steps ahead of our kids, playing out the various scenarios, one of which usually involves some horribly scary accident that you read about once on Facebook. So we tell them to back up from that railing, or to hold on tight in that mountain tube. Then, we say our little prayers, take some deep breaths, and put a smile on our face that says, "You got this, kiddo!"
Still, the scariest thing about being a Mom, I think, is holding their hearts in our hearts. It's having no control over how they're treated, or if they get hurt. I could probably deal with a kid who kicked one of my kids, but when their feelings get hurt...oh boy, I literally can't sleep. My heart breaks with theirs. And what's been the hardest thing for me to learn is how to let it all go. I can't help them or teach them if I'm too busy bleeding for them.
But, I'm learning. In the last year, I've learned a lot. They've been wronged and they've recovered. Their feelings get hurt, and they bounce right back. Kids aren't always nice, but they're also kids, and very few even know what they're saying, or what effect it can have. We talk about it, but I can only try to help them better react to it. That's our job as parents--to teach our kids resilience. And, of course, to teach them kindness. And we all do our best, but we don't always get it right. My boys have hurt others' feelings themselves, and we talk it through, and I hope it sinks in. My kids are still a work in progress. So am I. Aren't we all?
Today, my boys went off to their first day of second grade. I spent a week worrying, hand-wringing, talking it all to death, and yes, imagining all the worst case scenarios. And then my boys bounded off to school, excited, happy, ready to face the year ahead. Because they are kids. They are resilient. They're better at this childhood thing than I am. And, of course, they are brave. So I am going to keep trying to be brave too.
