Never So Vulnerable as Through Our Children

When I was in college, I took a creative writing course. I turned in several pieces that I was quite proud of (including a children's picture book called, "Stories from Poppies Porch Swing," that I sent off a few times and then gave up on ... but my kids know these stories). At that time, I can remember the anxiety I experienced when I would open my returned manuscript and read the grade and feedback of my instructor. Very often, I was devastated.

At the time, I likened it to presenting the professor with one of my children and hearing all the ways they didn't measure up. Of course, at the time, I had not yet had children. Even though it was an appropriate analogy, now that I have children I believe that submitting a manuscript for review can't hold a candle to the experience of observing our children, both how they experience the world and how the world assesses them.

Trevor, my artistic, verbose, sensitive six year old, has recently taken up the sport of wrestling. When the club first started up, his older brother Bryce would often assist the coach at his practices. (Now that Bryce's wrestling season is in full-throttle, he hardly ever assists because he's too busy.) Trevor would beam with pride because that was HIS big brother helping the coach and showing the moves. Indeed, I'm sure that Bryce's wrestling history plays a large part in the enthusiasm and motivation Trevor displays for the sport.

I love watching Trevor practicing the moves and teaching the moves to his younger brother at home. You can tell that he listens closely when the coach is teaching. He wants to be like his older brother. What's more, he wants to best his older brother.

However, accompanying him to the practices is not always as enjoyable. Bryce took to this sport immediately. He was wily and cunning and small and quick. Bryce outwitted opponents that were older and more experienced because he slipped in quickly and got it done.

Trevor is not Bryce, nor do I want him to be. But, even when I can appreciate his differences, I still wish him the same successes. For Trevor, the moves don't come easily. He is bulky and awkward and, despite enormous amounts of enthusiasm, often just doesn't get how to make his body move in the manner they are suggesting.

It sort of reminds me of the time I tried the Taebo tape and could not keep up because I couldn't figure out where my body was supposed to be in space. But, while I can laugh at my own ineptitude, watching Trevor struggle (especially if the rest of his team is closely observing) makes me inwardly cringe. I talk myself down internally with reminders like "You have to crawl before you walk," and "Success is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration," and the like.

Trevor also looks at my responses, where Bryce never seemed to care. I can't remember a time when Bryce looked back while wrestling to see what I thought of his performance. He was focused on the goal and he wanted what he wanted for himself. During practices, Trevor will struggle with a move or skill and then look back to see my reaction. It is as if he is basing his success or failure not only on his abilities, but also on my responses. (Thus, I have begun taking a book along and trying to stay somewhat engrossed in the pages to avoid those eye connections and the deep need for my approval.)

For some reason, the success or failure of my children hits me in my most vulnerable spot. Tonight, Trevor and I were watching "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea," because he had read in another book that this movie included a giant squid battle. In the midst of the battle, I explained that they were trying to sink the harpoon into the squid's small vulnerable spot. I told him a story I had once read about a dragon who had numerous scales and seemed invincible until one individual noticed that deep beneath the many scales was one small spot where no scale protected him (Tolkien, I'm guessing). That, indeed, was his vulnerable spot.

I must admit to having far more than one vulnerable spot. I am a hyper-sensitive wreck, to be sure ... but my children provide an especially tender vulnerability. When they hurt, I hurt ten times on their behalf. When they fail, I feel a failure. When they are unsure of themselves, I die a little death hoping they will not meet with criticism or embarrassment.

The coach believes in Trevor. He sees that Trevor could one day make a fine wrestler, even if he is not necessarily at that point now. Thankfully, unlike the time when Bryce struggled through a short basketball season, clearly recognizing that the other skilled players wished he wasn't on the team, wrestling is an individual sport. Trevor can learn at his own pace and it really doesn't hold anyone else back.

Tonight, my boy revealed his strong kinship to me. He was wounded emotionally while at his wrestling practice. I couldn't even get the details out of him.

Half way through the practice, I sensed that something had shifted in him. I mouthed, "You okay?" and he just shook his head. About ten minutes later, the coach sent them all off to get a drink. I mentioned to the coach that Trevor seemed to be acting weird or not his self (adding as a humorous aside that it isn't unusual for my boys to act weird, but that something seemed to be wrong for him and perhaps he had gotten hurt in some way).

When he returned from the drink, instead of joining the other wrestlers on the mats, he walked directly to me and began taking off his wrestling shoes (even though practice wasn't over). He said, "We're leaving." The coach noticed and reminded me that Trevor had a club shirt coming to him. Trevor didn't even want to stick around to get it (odd, since it has been talked about profusely over the last few weeks). The coach tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't fess up beyond that he wasn't physically hurt, but he was hurt by something his wrestling partner had said or done.

As we drove home, I couldn't get anything further out of him. He is refusing to wrestle at the meet this Sunday (not a big concern since I didn't really think he was ready for it anyway). In the silence (another indicator of major emotional damage, since that boy is NEVER SILENT) on the way home, I felt the sting of that vulnerability all over again.

In my head, I went over possible scenarios. My best guess is that the other boy made a remark about Trevor's size (oh, the vulnerability I feel when I think someone is criticizing my child's size or shape). He IS a bulky boy. At six, he already weighs 70 pounds.

Tonight, I found myself telling him the things my own heart needs to hear.

"Don't worry about what others think of you."

"Do your best, regardless of what the other guy says."

"Don't give up because of someone else's assessment (okay, I didn't use the word assessment when talking to Trevor)."

"Enthusiasm and drive matters far more than ability and experience. Give it your all and let the chips fall where they may."

Somehow these words came out quite easily. Letting them sink into my own heart and mind, on the other hand, especially when my child's awkwardness or inability feels like a repeat of my own awkwardness and inabilities, that is the difficult portion. Maybe his ache will help my ache to grow some tougher skin, too. After all, you can't be a good wrestler/good writer/good homemaker/good parent/good wife (insert your own pursuit) if you collapse at the first sign of criticism.