Free-Ranging It

daphne on April 27, 2011

Is what’s good for the goose chicken . . . good for the gander children?

These children that I have coddled and cuddled for over ten years? The ones who, yes, have a tendency to fall on their heads but otherwise have demonstrated good judgment and responsibility in spades.

Free range these children? These peace-loving, tree-hugging, flower children o’mine?

Yes.  I know the answer is yes.  It is time to let them out into that big bad world out there.

And in defense of that world, it’s been putting on a good show.  You’d never guess that she’s hell-bent on scaring me to pieces.  What with the blushing blossoms on her fruit trees

And her sweet young sprouts,

the world is practically bursting apart with displays of innocence.  It’s as if Mother Earth has draped herself in springtime in an evil attempt to forcefully loosen my hold and get my precious babes out into her play-land.

Which I know to be full of danger.

But it’s working.  I’m breaking down.  I am being fooled by Mama Nature.

Fooled into letting them ride their bikes without tethering them to bubble-wrap.  Fooled into giving them opportunities to flourish and the freedom to fail.  Fooled into free-ranging my chickadees.

No, not because it would make their flesh succulent and tender.

It’s because the little box that I yearn to keep them in is busting at the seams and at some point they may want to do things, like go to college.  Or get married.

And I hear that’s kind of hard to do when you’re being raised like veal.

The Answer is Blowing in the Wind

daphne on April 11, 2011

The question, of course, was the one I posed in a round-about way last week:  How do you protect your sprout-lings from the cold winds that blow?

You can plant the seeds.

You can nurture the little guys as they poke their heads into the world for the first time.

You can shower them with smothering love and affection as you watch them grow with pride but soon enough they will be begging to be set free, demanding to stand on their own out in the wild blue yonder

Oops.  Wrong sprouts.

Pardon the mistake but that’s bound to happen when you take parenting advice from a gardening site.  Which I have.  I read that in order to prepare your sprouts for the real world, you must blow on them.  This simulated mini-hurricane hardens your sprouts, making them stronger, thereby preparing them for the strong Colorado winds.

Or big bad life lessons, whichever nemesis applies.

The answer is blowing in the wind.  Or blowing on your plants.  Or letting your kids out into the world despite the fact that it can be a dark and scary place.

And so it was that our veggie sprouts began their training regiment of standing up to the fan.

And I, with a kiss and a forced smile, relinquished my sprouts to a panel of 12 judges.  The girls bent calmly into the wind.  They put themselves out there, faced their music, and wham bam 13-hours-in-a-gym later, they came away intact.

Not just intact, but ecstatic.  And bedecked with ribbons.

Here are the videos–

Kira’s Freestyle took first place for her age division.

Acadia’s Freestyle took first place for her division.

Kira’s Pairs Freestyle also took first.

But Honey — Mommy Thinks You’re Terrific

daphne on April 4, 2011

I’ve been thinking.

Thinking about all the blather I spew to parents of newbies about the dreaminess of life on this side of infancy.  About how parenting older kids is a walk in the park where that park doesn’t insist you follow slippery tots in and out of sand piles and up and down ladders and slides.

It is true.  Most days are just easier now that they’re grown.  But then I’ll go and do something dumb, like remembering when they looked like this

Back when I could bind them up in a cotton burrito and hold them close

So sweet.  So unaware that just a few years down the road lurk life lessons hungry to bite them in their unsuspecting little tushies.

Not that I’m against life lessons.  They are, no doubt, vital stepping stones on the path towards becoming well-adjusted human beings.

Scratch that.

I hate life lessons.  They are big and mean and hurtful and I want them to go away.

I do not want them sneaking up, threatening to snatch away my girls’ dreams in the name of building character.

I hate character.

Why can’t childhood just be a succession of blissful little images of quiet innocence?

You know, the way it is in my selective memory.

All I took was a few tentative steps down baby lane and now I’m a total wreck.  I am awash in images of days that sped by

Days in which achieving perfection in mama’s eyes alone was enough

But they are content no more.  They have turned their noses up at pacifiers and swaddling blankets and this decidedly lop-sided opinion I’ve got of them.  They have moved on to challenges that will no doubt prepare them for life and destroy my sanity.

How will I protect them when they insist on heading out into the cruel world to be judged by strangers on merits alone when they could stay home with me and bask in my tales of their brilliance and talent?

What if they go out there and do not succeed?

What if they are crushed with disappointment despite working determinedly towards a singular goal?

There is no certified program for soothing big kids.

No book of miracles beyond the swaddle and gentle bouncing.

There is no 5-point harness to shield them from the shocks delivered by mean girls or tough breaks or tournaments with undesirable outcomes.

They want to compete.  And my baby-no-more wants to be judged, not by jaded parents or gushing grandparents, but by an objective panel.  And she wants to come out on top.

I am proud of her.  Of her lofty goals and her determination and hard work.  On paper, I will spout that win or lose there are valuable life lessons to be learned.

Blech.  Life lessons.

I hate life lessons.