Bravery

I'll love you forever.

I'll like you for always.

As long as I'm living...

My baby you'll be.

Love You Forever...Robert Munsch

In the past few weeks, my children have shown me what true bravery is all about. For starters, Ryan started day camp last week at the local YMCA. As excited as he was in theory about camp starting I could feel his enthusiasm wane as we walked into the building. All around us, kids were a buzz, drunk with the freedom of being done with school and starting summer vacation.

In situations like this, where chaos reigns supreme, I tend to automatically shut down. I find the combination of noise and movement from too many people in a confined space altogether overwhelming for my senses. As I could feel myself run for cover in the inner sanctum of my own head, I glanced down at Ryan. He too looked to be a bit stunned by all the commotion run amok. Yet, instead of clinging to my leg or holding onto my hand, he looked up at me and said, "It's okay, Mommy. You can go now."

I always marvel at Ryan's willingness to try anything new, completely undeterred. Such a far cry from what I was like as a child, or even like now as an adult. Part of me wanted to take him out of there, afraid he'd be gobbled up by the fray of "big" kids. But, like getting into a cold pool, he took a deep breath and just jumped. My brave little knight.

The next honorable mention for bravery goes to Justin. Justin is a child who clings to certain routines. For instance when I drop him off at school, he unpacks his lunch from his little Elmo book bag, puts said bag in his assigned cubby, then says, "Good-bye" to me, at which point, I am to go...immediately. If I stay even for a few seconds to chat with his teacher he quickly becomes unglued.

Bedtime is a similar routine. We read the same story (Baby Einstein's Violet's House, if your interested), we say prayers, then he says, "Good-night" at which point I am to turn off the light and, once again, leave immediately. Well, a few nights ago I thought I'd shake things up a bit. As we read Violet's house, I thought t might be a good time to work on "where" questions. He's been doing so well with "what" and "who" that I thought we could try something new. As we read each page, I'd ask, Justin "Where is Violet?" Knowing he wouldn't know the answer, I'd model it for him (i.e. "She's in the kitchen".) I did this for a couple of pages until I realized that his huge brown eyes were welling up with tears.

He looked at me with such sadness on his face it sucked the breath right out of me. He quietly closed the book and said, "The end."

Now, I've seen him get angry when I've tried to teach him things and I've seen him get really annoyed with a look that says, "Just leave me alone". But this was altogether different. This was a look that conveyed, "I know I should know the answer, but I don't".

This was a look of...recognition.

A look that I was so completely unprepared for. I tried to scoop him up in my arms to comfort him, but he fended me off, too desperate now for the homeostasis of his normal routine. He cuddled himself under the covers, amidst the 28 or so stuffed animals he insists on sleeping with. Again, I wanted to whisk him out of his bed and cover him with kisses. To tell him how proud I was of him even if he didn't know the answer to the questions. I knew he wouldn't understand the meaning of my words, but I couldn't bear the thought that he might think he had disappointed me in some way.

I wanted to say so much to him. But, with silent tears coming down his cheeks, he looked at me bravely and said, "good night".

With that, I knew I had been dismissed. My services were no longer needed. He just wanted me to leave so he could find solitary comfort in his stuffed animal family and cry himself to sleep.

I've been truly haunted by these two images of my children this week. Completely unsettled at the notion that as my children get older, I won't always be able to protect them as much as my maternal instinct craves. Some battles they are simply going to have to fight on their own. It was so much easier when they were babies. I could just stick them in the Baby Bjorn and snarl at anyone who came too close. But as Ryan is always so quick to point out, they aren't babies anymore.

And yet, they are.

They are my babies. Age really has nothing to do with it. I'm sure I'll feel this way when they're in their 30's.

I just wonder, as a mother, do you ever really forget that feeling of fierce protectiveness you have for your children. What kind of courage must it take to let go of the fear. Fear that they'll get hurt. Fear that they'll have their hearts broken. Fear of not having control over everything that touches your precious child's world.

I know this is a courage I don’t possess yet.

But at least with my boys, I have some pretty good role models when the time does come to let go.