We pulled into the parking lot right on time. Okay, maybe it was a minute or two late, but as I said, this is a relaxed league, and they weren't started yet. Just a few minutes late is actually early for us. We would've been several minutes early if I had not stopped to buy the water bottles I'd forgotten to bring. Qiu Qiu, my shy one, leapt out of the car and started running toward the field. She is not shy when it comes to sports. She's gifted athletically, and with that comes confidence.
I made it halfway to the field when I realized that Charlie was neither in front of nor next to me. Looking back, I found him standing, frozen, next to the van. I urged him to come, and he sadly shook his head. "Okay, wait just a minute. Let me get Qiu Qiu settled." I introduced her to the coach, sent her happily onto the field, and then headed back to the parking lot.
My seven-year-old boy, whom I have rarely considered shy, was crouched near the ground, hiding from sight, on the opposite side of our van. His eyes brimmed over with tears. I coaxed and I encouraged and I sweet-talked the team to him. He took a few steps forward and then, overcome with emotion, took a few steps back. Although practice hadn't started yet, kids were already kicking balls around on the field, kids he didn't know, and the fear of walking into that unfamiliar territory was just too much for him to face.
We called Daddy, who has a sweet, gentle way of calming the worst fears, and he tried to talk him through it. Charlie, I could tell, wanted so much to be obedient and walk out onto that field. But the fear was just so strong. When the phone conversation ended, he was even more distraught, sobbing, "I want to do it, but I don't want to do it. I don't know what to do."
My mother's heart went back in time twenty-some years. It was early autumn, and I was visiting my parents' home. I offered to drive my three youngest siblings to their elementary school one day. The two girls headed off to their classrooms while I escorted my little brother Piper to his. He was clinging to my hand, and just before we reached the first grade door, he froze, looked up at me through teary eyes, and begged, "Can I please stay home with you and Mom today?"
I wasn't his mother and it wasn't my call. I coaxed and I encouraged and I sweet-talked the school to him. And before either of us could decide otherwise, his teacher came into the hallway, told me he'd be fine as soon as I left, and whisked him into the classroom. A few minutes later I peeked through the window and saw that Piper was still teary-eyed, looking toward the door. My heart broke as I walked away, and I knew that I never wanted to do that again.
On Tuesday, I was his mother and it was my call. I could firmly force Charlie to face his fears or I could choose to find another way around them. "Hey, Buddy, how about we try again on Saturday? Daddy will bring you and Jacinta early, and you can kick the ball around on the field before the other kids get here." He looked up at me, his face immediately brightening with relief. I could almost see the fear and anguish melting off of his sweet little body. The rest of the night he kept bravely talking about how he would go to soccer practice on Saturday. And yesterday morning, he did. With no hesitation whatsoever.
I will never be a Tiger Mom. Are there things I must make my kids do? Absolutely. Things like memorizing addition facts and eating vegetables and cleaning their bedrooms. Soccer is not one of them. I do want to help my children face their fears...at the right time, in the right way. As much as the world sometimes says I should, I'll never be the type of bird who pushes her chicks out of the nest so they will learn to fly. It's just not me. Instead, I'll tenderly hold them close and then gently let them go...when they are ready. My heartfelt prayer is that they will fly, full of confidence and joy, knowing, above all else, that they are loved.
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