I’ve fallen out of the routine of writing. I miss it. I’ve felt the same block I did before kicking off this blog—what’s important/interesting/relevant/whatever enough? After the time away, welcoming a new baby, re-entering the workforce, adjusting to life as a mom of two—is sharing my weekday chili recipe worthy of my time on here? (it is, I’ll be posting it later this month).
But alas, I found the topic. It’s one that’s been simmering, on low, in my bones for the last several months. Yesterday, a scene at a local gym brought that simmer to a rolling boil. When I saw it, I knew—this. THIS is the topic I can’t not write about. You’ve forced my hand, mom at open gym, forced my hand.
The scene is always the same—a playground, open gymnastics, the beach, the park. It always unfolds the same way. I’m providing my adventurous and confident three-year old the time and space to explore her environment and her abilities. And to give her space, I need to give her, well, space — a physical distance between us so she can test her boundaries—climbing, jumping, swinging, exploring. She’s little, and her moxie sometimes stands in juxtaposition to her stature, creating a scene that does sometimes stop you—woah, look at that kid!
Enter, let’s call her, parent X. Parent X is often physically closer to my kid because of the aforementioned, and because her kids are likely playing near my kid, and parent X’s style is to be within arm’s length of her kids at all times. Fair enough. Parent X will then witness my kid doing something she deems ‘dangerous,’ and intervene, physically. Let me repeat that—a person that neither me nor my child knows will make a decision to ‘rescue’ her from a cargo net, a climbing wall, the monkey bars, a foam pit, by touching her body without her or my permission. Man, I didn’t realize how mad I’d become about these scenes until just now. But I am. Parent X usually backpedals a few feet when I react.
“NO thanks! She’s all set. Please don’t help!” (this is often too late, as the ‘rescue’ is generally swift and happens before I can stop it).
‘Oh!’ (a little embarrassed, but not enough) “I thought, I mean, I didn’t want her to hit her chin….those shoes look like it was making her hard to climb….I’d hate to see her get hurt.”
You know what, parent X? I’d hate to see her get hurt too. She’s my treasure. But what I’d hate more is for her to spend her life being afraid, not knowing what she can accomplish, thinking that others, including me, are better equipped to make decisions about her physical abilities than she is. So I’m standing here, an extremely calculated distance away, and I can help her when she really needs it. It’s a distance you wouldn’t understand because it’s nuanced, it’s personal, and because I’m the mom.
It might not feel like a big deal, parent X, but it is. Here is what you’re saying, with your well-meaning intervention, when you touch my kid:
1. My child isn’t in charge of her own body. I’m sure this is the furthest thing from your mind, but it’s the closest to mine. When you ask her if she wants help while simultaneously lifting her out of the gymnastics pit, your strange arms wrapped around her body, you’ve taken away her autonomy and ability to choose what happens to her body. You’ve violated her. No, really.
2. Your parenting style is superior to mine: With your swift action, you’ve made a split second judgement that ‘surely nobody is watching this helpless child, Danger! What she’s doing could HURT her! I know better so I must ACT!’ I assure you, I’m watching, waiting, monitoring, breathless with the unknown—she might not succeed, but, she might.
3. I don’t trust your child to know her physical limitations and I have so little control over myself that I must intervene: Letting your kid do something potentially dangerous is hard. It takes discipline and care to let her spread those wings, a metaphor for parenthood at large. And in that action you’ve robbed me of that investment in restraint, and my child of that moment where she might accomplish something new—finally scale that wall, climb that log, leap from that rock. And of all of the things that burn me about you touching my kid, this one lights me up the most. My greatest joy in parenting so far is in that moment—that moment of uncertainty when she could fall. She could fall, she could slip, she could. But then she doesn’t. And her transition from might to did is the reason I’m doing this. Don’t mess it up. And let me be clear–please don’t touch my kid.
