Hands Off

Not my job, if I'm doing my job right.

As a younger parent, I prided myself on my ability to run interference.

I believe this is not atypical. We hope to spare our children frustration and disappointment because we love them and attach to our self-appointed role of the One Who Can Make Everything Okay. Small children, up to a point, require a handler, but capable adults must learn to rely on themselves.  

Years ago, I went to a wildlife reserve in South Africa that prohibited human intervention. We could not move the injured baby zebra to the safety of the brush so its mother would see him before the lion did. Nature had to unfold like we weren’t there, which meant I had a front row seat but zero agency. As a softie, this was not a place I felt comfortable.    

I have always loved doing things for my kids, as hard-wired nurturer and de facto fixer. But I came to realize that to not adequately allow the unchecked experience of trial and error was to take away the great, messy, complicated joy that is true autonomy.  

So now, I am learning the art of minding my own damn business. I wait for Henry to figure out how to fit the shape in the right-shaped hole. I understand with some melancholy that by letting him sort things, I make myself less essential, practically speaking. But that’s how this gig works, right? We love fiercely, then, intentionally or not, we have to let go.

It takes discipline for this mama to step back. I only hope my kids and grandkids sense, in the nothing I am forcing myself to do, my growing faith that they, not me, have got this.