All you need

Last weekend, we sent our seven-year-old son off with a snowboarding instructor who expanded J-man’s passion for the sport and confirmed that he could venture forth on his own. Though the J disagreed, I insisted that “on his own” actually meant “with his mother or father,”

So, he and I set off together. He wanted the challenge of an intermediate trail. But I, conservative and probably a bit nervous, was more comfortable starting with a beginner slope. To minimize any argument, I suggested taking the lift to the top of the mountain. Hopefully, the altitude would allow him to feel like he was embarking on a challenging trail, and I knew we could take a beginner slope from there.

We navigated the lift line and boarded the lift. As we rode to the top, my heart leapt to my throat. My son has a slight build, so I worried about him sliding through the safety bar and dropping to the terrain below. From his perch, he watched the boarders on the slopes, which sometimes involved twisting his body to see how they fared as they progressed further down the mountain. He occasionally needed to adjust a boot or mitten, or slowly scrape ice off the bar or seat. He remained cool and in control while he made these movements, but each one filled me with panic that he might slip through the safety bar.

We finally FINALLY made it to the top of the mountain and off the lift. I thought I could breathe a sigh of relief and relax but no. Of course not. When he skis, I ski behind him, partly to keep an eye on him but mostly because I am slower. After doing this for years, I can watch his body movements and predict his turns. I know how fast he can go and still be in control. I can tell when he is about to fall.

But now he is on a snowboard, and I am not so familiar with the body movements that go with snowboarding. The mountain felt like a crowded rush of fast skiers and boarders zipping way too close to my little boy. As for predicting his moves, I couldn’t tell if he was about to turn away from danger or head into it. As he flirted with the edge of the trails, I worried that he wouldn’t turn in time and then go careening over the edge. No matter how many times or ways I asked him to stay away from poles and other hard objects, apparently they have a magnetic quality.

I could do nothing but worry about any of these things, and that worry consumed me through that run, the next ride on the lift, and the following run. After several iterations of this, I realized that, even if he got into trouble, I had no real skills to help him. This only compounded my worry and feeling of helplessness.

I had to get off this ledge. The worry wasn’t fun, or useful, or anything I value. Think think think. In the worst case, what could I do? Really, all I could do was be there. I could be first on the scene, for whatever that is worth. I could let him know that I was there. I could hold his hand.

Knowing what I could do gave me a little tiny opening in the worry, and through that opening, I could see that he periodically checked to make sure I was watching him. Confident, he wanted to make sure that I saw his smooth moves, and he was happy that I had an eye on him. A few times, he stopped at the top of a steep slope to get my reassurance that he could do it.

From my perspective, my emotional support didn’t feel like much. But, if disaster struck, it would exactly what he would need from me. I could leave the more tangible tasks to the professionals.

My worry cleared a little more and I relaxed enough to learn his snowboarding movements, to predict a turn as well as a fall. I observed pieces of the culture as older snowboarders made nice comments or stopped to give him tips. He worked on his turns, going for longer stretches between falls and finding jumps. And he kept looking for me, making sure that I was watching him when he was doing something great and that I was nearby in case he needed me.

Fortunately, none of my horrific visions materialized. Eventually, he will snowboard as fast and well as he can ski, and the time will come when I won’t be able to keep up. But today, he was happy to have me nearby, and we did okay together.

I relate to this feeling of making sure that someone is nearby. Sometimes I write more often than others, reaching out to you. I am checking to make sure you are there. Even if I am not in trouble, your presence is still necessary, still strengthening, and still makes the run more fun. I reach out to you, as your presence makes good news even better and provides reassurance when I feel a little uncertain or scared.

Know that even if it feels like all you can do is be there, that in itself is often exactly what I need. Thank you.

Love and blessings,
Marie