Courage

I knew this was the year.  I knew it and was dreading it and truth be told, avoided it because I knew it was the year.  The year that my daughter had reached the coveted 48” mark, meaning she was now tall enough for the water-slides at Sandcastle, our local water park.

We stood, looking up, and I wanted to be sick as she asked, “Please Mommy.”

She had been on a water slide once, when she was 3 or 4, when a lone slide had a height restriction of a mere 36”.  It was a tube slide, she was required to have an adult, and we would ride in a double inner tube. 

Over ten years of being an “adult” (i.e. not going to amusement parks), I had long lost my sea legs for the thill of height and speed.  As we climbed the stairs that year, I was full of anxiety, repeatedly telling her things like, “You cannot let go, even if you get water on your face or in your eyes.” 

At the top, my stomach turned as I realized her little bottom was too small to sit in the front hole of our double inner tub and she was instructed to sit in the center of its figure 8 shape.

Settling my own bottom in the back hole, I repeated my instructions to not let go, locking my feet under her armpits, terrified she would somehow slide off the wet plastic and get caught under it.  (I have a very descriptive imagination, which I will spare you the output of.)

Shortly after our tube started it’s mad rush through the water, I realized that my daughter could feel my tension and hear my grunts of fear as we were buffeted back and forth inside of the tube slide.  I made an effort to call out a cheerful  “whoo hoo” every few moments, not wanting her to be as scared as I was.  But I hated every second of it.

We hit the pool at the bottom and she did slip and fall, with only my feet keeping her from falling fully through the hole.  The shocked lifeguard exclaimed “Good catch!” and had to be prodded to rescue my dangling daughter so I could get out of the tube and the way of the next rider.

Later that year, I read an article in our local paper, describing how a child had been hurt on the same model slide at another park.  As a result, on the advice of the manufacturer, Sandcastle would be raising the height limit of all its slides to the current 48” mark.

For two years, I have been relieved to honestly tell her, “Sorry honey, you aren’t quite tall enough yet.”

 

Not this year.  And while I have cited the crappy Pittsburgh summer and our crazy busy schedules, if I am to be brutally honest, whenever we had the chance for summer fun, I ranked Sandcastle at the bottom.  I was so anxious about it, I was willing to let our expensive season passes go to waste.

Until two Sundays ago, when I declared that we needed to do something fun, outside and summery to celebrate the last day of summer break.  I suggested a picnic at a favorite park with her grandparents.  My daughter suggested Sandcastle.

With my mom in tow, I tried to steel myself for the day.   What if my strong little swimmer hit the bottom and couldn’t get to the edge?   (What’s three years of private swim lessons against the fear of a mom?)  What if she got hurt on the way down? 

Besides, I  really didn’t want to go down the slide myself.  But I couldn’t let her go up with all those big kids alone.  Maybe I could go up, get her on the slide and come back down the steps, and mom can collect her at the bottom. 

One look at the last weekend of the summer crowds let me know that wasn’t possible.

It was with great relief that she wanted to start at Wet Willie's, the park’s kid’s area.  We enjoyed lunch, and relaxed on the lazy river.  In a lame attempt at self-delusion, I even commented to my mom that I didn’t think she really wanted to ride the big slides, because she hadn’t really asked to, beyond verifying she was tall enough.  

But as we floated in the summer sun, my parental guilt hit full force. 

The thing is, I want to keep her safe.  Safe from physical harm.  Safe from disappointment.  Safe from fear.

But I want her to be brave.  I want her to try new things and not always be held back my fear.  I want her to have adventures and be adventurous.  I want that just as much as I want to keep her safe and protected.  I know first-hand that keeping her safe and protected now will make her a more fearful adult.  And so nothing makes me feel so ashamed as holding her back because of my fear.

So with a tight chest and a stomach in knots, I suggested we get in line for the slides before it was too late and the park closed.  She agreed, and while there were no words, I could sense her emotion.  She hadn’t asked because she could tell I didn’t want her to go on them.  Calling all shame gremlins!

Needing start off “small”, we started on a level 3 (out of 4) tube slide.  She didn’t want to be inside a tunnel like we were when she was smaller, so we picked an open one.  It wound back and forth, and with its gradual decent, I was pleasantly surprised at how easy it felt.  I was ready to go again.

But then she looked up, staring at the yellow and orange chutes and said it, “Please, Mommy.  Please can I go on the yellow and orange slides?”  And I knew this was the moment. 

The moment when I could fill her with all my fears or let her take her own on head first.

I remembered my one and only run down the center yellow slide.  I was barely out of my teens, a young pup of 5’2” and all of about 115 lbs.  The slide is a free fall, and I remember the pain radiating from tailbone to neck when the chute caught me at the bottom.   I couldn’t imagine what it would do to my little girl.

Then I looked down into her pleading eyes, her toothless grin, and saw that apprehension.   That look she gets when she knows that I am going to say no.  That looks she only gets when I say no because I am afraid.  That look that is always followed by sad resignation and an amazing tolerance for her dysfunctional mom.  The look that brings me to my knees at the altar of shame, every time.

I took a breath, and said, “Yes” to one of the orange slides.   The surprise and excitement in her eyes filled my heart with pride. 

Wanting someone at the bottom with her, we walked back to my mom.  Along the way, I explained how as parents we want our kids to be safe.  And how, what I really want to do is to wrap her up in bubble wrap and place her safe on a shelf at home.  But that I know she is brave and wants to try new things.  I told her that I was so proud that she could be courageous, even when I wasn’t, when I couldn’t be. 

Then I did the strangest thing.  Even as I write this, I can’t believe I did it. 

I didn’t walk up the steps with her.  With the thinning crowds and the park closure looming, I walked her to the bottom of the steps and told her, “Go on, I’ll see you at the bottom.”

For all my worries that she would get up there and be too scared to come down, that she would hold up the line waffling (it’s happened) , I didn’t go up with her.  I didn’t go up and cheer her on.  I didn’t go to hold her hand or to give her a soft place to land if she chickened out.  I wanted to be below so I could witness her bravery.  I wanted to watch every glorious minute of it.

With the whirlwind of worry, I forgot to grab my phone for pictures, and I didn’t dare go back for it, for fear I would miss her big descent.   Although there weren’t many people on the platform, I couldn’t see her.  I worried that she got scared and headed back down the steps to our designated meeting place (just in case).  It seemed to take forever. 

Then suddenly, there she was.  She whizzed by, so fast I could barely keep my eyes on her.  I watched her come to a stop in a wave of water, and rushed down to meet her.  Her grandmother and I covered her in congratulatory hugs, celebrating her accomplishment.  

As they announced the park was closing, she was asking about the bigger yellow slide.  “Maybe next year,” I told her.  I was grateful for the closing gates, because if there had been time, I am not sure I could have told her no to the big yellow slide in the middle.  I am not sure that my heart wouldn’t have exploded in fear if I had said yes.

All evening she talked about how she went on “the second biggest slide” at Sandcastle.  She told her PapPap about her adventure.  She told her friends at school the next day.

I thought a lot about her courage.  How she just went up and did it.  How she did it without me standing up there with her.  Her courage staggers me.  How could this brave little girl come from such a scared and fearful mama?

I think about something I have often told her.  Courage isn’t about not being afraid.  Courage is about being afraid but still moving forward. Still trying.

Becoming a parent, especially an older, single parent, I am all too aware of the precious gift I have been given.  But I am also painfully aware that this child, who has an amazing sense of adventure, was sent to me to challenge me, to push the boundaries of the comfort zone in which I have insulated myself for way too long.

In my own way, I was courageous that beautiful summer day.  I was courageous enough to let my daughter sail down the second biggest slide at Sandcastle, despite my fears.  And letting go of our kids, letting them fly – or slide – is the most courageous thing of all.