Every now and then the responsibility of being a parent king-hits me right between the eyes. More than the usual 'am I doing this right?' angst. More than the permanent worry that one of my children might turn out to be 'that kid'.* More even than the constant quest to get the right kind of nutrients into those little bodies. More than that.
Yesterday was our school's K-2 cross country. A lap around the back oval with the long-jump pit thrown in for the 'country' bit; run to much fanfare. Neither of my children was remotely interested in participating, Cappers is quite nervous about doing anything that will be judged in front of a large group - more on that another time for this is Maxi's story.
Maxi moaned and groaned about having to actually run and come in last place because "that's just the way I turn out every single time." Very matter-of-fact, but a catch was there. A sigh.
It breaks your heart to hear your child talk like that. You can tell them time and time again that it "doesn't matter where you place, just that you finish the race." But I guess deep down we're all thinking, yeah, right. Even at seven they know that that's not really how the world works.
Well, yesterday, I learned that while that might be true, it's still, thank god, not the way that happiness works.
See, it's me with the problem.
I'm the one who's been a little bit ashamed that my son isn't the superstar sporty type. That he's the kid inspecting the grass while his team scores a goal. That's he's the one trailing behind all his friends as they race into the bush to look for treasure. I get slightly panicked about what he'll do when sport is everything to his peers and not to him.
It seems that deep down I'm a little bit ashamed of his lack of prowess and a whole lot ashamed that I feel that way.
The thing is, until yesterday, I hadn't even realised that I felt shame. I've never acknowledged it. If someone had asked me about Maxi's sporting abilities or lack thereof, I would have made a little joke that showed how proud I was of him regardless. And I was always proud of him - my beautiful, strong, lit-from-within son; but now I realise that there was a big, fat 'but' attached to that pride.
Yesterday.
Yesterday, my non-sporty son felt the fear and did it anyway. He started that race with a smile and a slap on the back from a mate and he ran that race with a smile and he finished in last place barr one (kid fell over) with a smile that would light up the moon.
Watching him run around that field, wind at his back, joy in just the doing of it, I thought my heart would leap out of my chest with pride. This was what pride without the buts felt like. Just enormous, gushing pride and so much joy in his joy and no thought about what it meant for me or about me.
It's not about me. It is never about me. None of this parenting business is. My children's achievements are their own, just as their hurdles are their own. It's about them and their place in the world and it's up to me to stand back and let them find that place, even if it's last place. To get out of the way with my ego and my pride and my little ideas about what they should and shouldn't be doing.
To just get out of the way already, and let those sweet kids run their own race.
* You know that kid. Every school has that kid. We all remember that kid.
[Image by tallthinguy]
