Out of Reach:  The Risk of Parenting

Out of Reach: The Risk of Parenting

My oldest went sky diving a few weeks ago.  She took off with a group of friends and jumped out of a perfectly good plane while, 2 hours away, her dad and I checked our phones nervously for news of a safe landing.

This is par for the parenting game. About three seconds after I became a parent, every cell in my being zeroed in on the safety of that little bundle.  And about three seconds after that, my kids seemed to delight in finding new ways to hurt themselves.

I did all the right stuff–electrical outlet covers, car seats, a lock on the chemicals under the sink, talks about strangers, the internet, drugs and alcohol, driving skills, and safe sex. Still, they found ways to get broken arms, ding the car, and make asinine choices.  From their first steps (right into the edge of the coffee table) to the scraped elbows from the epic wreck on the bicycle, 90% of parenting felt like I was chasing them around with bubble wrap, which they’d fling off and set fire to.

I put my 3-month-old down for a nap once, grabbed the baby monitor and went to our unfinished upstairs to paint some window frames.  My husband came home for lunch that day, poked his head up to say hello, then left a short time later.  When I heard the baby stirring on the monitor, I headed down to get her and discovered he’d locked the door, which was always our habit.  I was trapped, the baby out of reach with no one around, no phone.

Panic!  I calculated how many bones would break if I jumped out the second story window. Tried throwing myself into the door to break it down.  (It doesn’t work like it does in the movies.)  Everyone else in the cul de sac was at work, except…  A solitary teen aged boy was playing basketball several doors down.  I screamed at him, hanging out the window and waving my arms like an insane person until he came over, let himself into my house, and freed me from my prison.  (Clearly, his parents had not taught him about Stranger Danger.)

This same child locked herself in her room as a toddler, and I sat on the other side of the door, our fingers touching underneath, frantically fumbling with the skeleton key.  There is nothing so agonizing to a parent as being helpless to reach a child who needs you.

Ask any parent of a chronically ill child, watching as they’re wheeled to yet another procedure.  Or the parents denied access to their adopted child month after month while foreign governments sift through red tape.  Divorced parents who share custody with an irresponsible or abusive ex.  Parents of deployed soldiers.  It’s all part of the package, except, eager to reproduce, none of us ever reads the fine print.

A friend who recently dropped off her kid at college lamented to me that she couldn’t stop worrying about something happening and not being able to get to her daughter.  I get it. My own is scheduled to study abroad next semester and I’ll admit to feeling similar twinges, especially after Paris, Brussels, and Nice hit the news cycle.  But that’s fear talking.  And fear is not the Boss of me.  “Love is what we’re born with,” says Marianne Williamson.  “Fear is what we learn here.”

Parenting is nothing if not risk.  From the time they’re born, we perform a kind of catch and release with our hearts.  It’s a tight-wire balancing act:  keep them close, send them out; swoop in to rescue, let them learn to fall.   The end goal is, after all, to work ourselves out of a job.

https://youtu.be/he3zaola7YE

Full disclosure:  I grew up in the 70’s and 80’s when we rode our bikes miles from home (sans helmets) and drank straight from the garden hose  The surgeon general was barely even a thing.  I’m in favor of running barefoot, grabbing mane on a galloping horse, climbing trees, and “Swing higher, Daddy!”

Yes, there are moments of panic and anguish as a parent, times when you can’t protect your child or prevent every misstep.  Did we really believe it would all be giggles and lollipops?  We can’t fetishize safety because of a world that feeds off fear like it’s sugar.   When did failure became the new F-word?  Failure is the only way forward.

The flip-side of risk is where the good stuff hides out.  The flip side of risk is connection, creativity, a life with flourish.  Sometime, we have to let go of the back of the bike and quit running along behind.  I’m too old for that noise, for one thing.  And parenting was never supposed to be about my fear–it’s about their launch.

 

College Bound

 I packed my firstborn off to college last week. Loaded up the car with a ridiculous over-estimation of how much stuff was actually vital to have and spent several hours in the August sun schlepping it all from the parking lot into the 12×12 new space she will now be calling “home.”  Mini fridge, check. Bedspread, check. Every item of clothing she’s ever owned, check.

We were so busy rearranging furniture, meeting the new roomies, and unloading the car that we never really had time to be maudlin about the whole affair.  By the time we left, having handed off insurance information, a check for that last bit of tuition, and a Starbucks gift card just for fun, we were exhausted.  Besides, I felt it in my bones:  after months of college tours, research, and scholarship applications, she was in the right place.

We’d spent the past 17 years in preparation for this moment, right?  From those first steps as a toddler, she was independence-bound, this one, determined to do it herself.  And she has.  She has eagerly tried new things, met new people, traveled new places with courage and a bravery I certainly lacked at her age.  Her dad and I held her hands for a little while (but not long!) until her 16th birthday arrived, the car keys were handed off, and we started to see less and less of our daughter.  Between school, friends, and two jobs, she was always on the go.  And as of last weekend, she has officially landed in a space of her own.  Which is how it’s supposed to be, what you strive for as a parent:  a confident, curious, independent, secure kid.

My husband is a veterinarian, and one day at the office he was discussing the training of a young border collie with his colleague.  The sweet natured black and white pup was set to try his skills that day as he herded cattle for the first time.  It’s what these dogs are bred to do, work that they crave, and you know you’ve trained him over and over with signals, rewards, punishments, and by letting him slowly get the hang of the job by circling flocks of geese and sheep first.  But that first day out with the cows, when he’s bristling with excitement, keyed up and waiting for the release, you still feel anxious and worried as your whistle sends him out to round up the hulking 600-pound beasts, with horns and hooves of steel.  Despite knowing what he’s doing, having prepared for it incessantly since birth, he can still get his head kicked in.  As my husband relayed this conversation to me, I nodded. Yep.  Kinda like dropping off your only daughter on a college campus to face that 600-pound world you’ve been practicing on.

She never was really mine to begin with.  Oh, I got the privilege of small arms around my neck, watching her see and experience things for the first time (dandelions, a pony’s nose, chocolate).  I took her temperature and applied band aids when needed.  But all this time she’s been on loan to me and I knew at some point the day would come when I’d have to give her back to her Father, trusting I’d crammed in all the knowledge and wisdom I could in 17 short years.  And trusting that He knows the plans He has for her, He knows the blessings He’ll provide if she just asks.

For high school graduation, we gave her a necklace with a compass charm on it, the longitude and latitude of our address engraved on it, so she’d always remember to find her way home.  I think she’ll remember where she came from, but more importantly I hope she keeps her eyes on where she’s headed as she’s making discoveries and having the time of her life in the next four years.

When we went out to dinner the other night, my son told the hostess there were three of us to be seated.  I started to correct him–“Four,” I started to say.  But he was right.  I got a little lump in my throat then, as I realized our little family unit really had changed for good.  I kind of lost my appetite for quesadillas.  But she texted me during dinner:  “I’m meeting so many cool people, and I love it here!”   She’s got this.   Pass the salsa.  Good luck, kiddo, and watch out for the cows.

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