Slowly Learning

When Joseph was a year old, he crawled around on all fours, a wide smile on his face. "Why isn't he walking yet?" I fretted to Chad, consulting milestone information and polling my moms' forum.

When Joseph was two, I stood at the foot of a slide and tried to coax him down. He shook his head and walked carefully to the steps. "Why won't he slide?" I fretted, glancing furtively at nearby toddlers throwing themselves down the slide in abandoned glee.

When Joseph was three, I contemplated sending him to potty training boot camp in Chicago as I threw away yet another wet pull-up. "Why isn't he potty trained?" I fretted, noticing his peers proudly displaying their underweared, rather than diapered, bums.

When Joseph was four, I walked away from the side of the pool where he was gripping the instructor's swimsuit top in terror. "Why won't he relax and play in the water?" I fretted, seeing his cousin diving into the water.

When Joseph was seven, I walked away from where he was trying to ride without training wheels in frustration. "I don't understand why he is having so many problems with this," I fretted, remembering his cousin flying across a dirt path.

When Joseph was eight, he clung to the side of the pool. Again. 

And then...

He didn't.

When Joseph was thirteen months old, he let go of the table and walked towards me, clapping his hands in excitement.

When Joseph was two and a half, he sat on the edge of the slide and let go.

When Joseph was three years and one month, he informed me he didn't need pull ups any longer and he didn't.

When Joseph was seven, he pedaled past me on his bike, taking it off the curb and calling for me to catch up.

When Joseph was nine, he let go of the side of the pool and slid through the water like a fish.

It has taken a while, but I'm slowly learning to let go of preconceived notions, ideas of when he should hit milestones. I'm slowly learning he does things in his own time, at his own pace, when he is ready and when he does...he flies. 

Parenting seems very competitive today. Even when we don't want to be a part of the race, we can't help but compare and in the comparison forget the tiny people in our care. The hardest lesson is the realization our children are not us. They are not tiny versions of our own fears and foibles, joys and trials. They are individuals with their own sense of self.

It's easy to push, to prod, to project. It's more difficult to step back and let them be, to celebrate their strengths and not reject the very existence of their weaknesses.

I'm a slow learner. 

Today, Joseph advanced to a competitive level in swimming. His coaches tell us he has a swimmer's build, his reach is amazing, his form improving at a rapid pace. I looked at the little boy who, eight months ago didn't particularly care to get his hair wet and am awed.

"Do you want to compete in a meet? There are several coming up."

"Nah. I'm good," he said, putting on his shoes. 

"Are you sure?"

"It's not really important to me to compete. I love the exercise and improving my skills." And in his tone and face I see utter and sincere truth.

I paused, my brain filled with visions of ribbons and trophies telling me to push, my instincts screaming at me to halt. I smiled. "That's an awesome goal! If you change your mind, let me know."

"I'd still like to go out for a celebration dinner."

"Of course! I'm very proud of you. You worked hard to advance."

I walked next to him out to the car, proud of myself too.

I'm a slow learner. But I am learning.