Trying

Daniel is an intense person. Some things come very easily for him (like reading and math and stellar cartography). Some things don’t, like climbing stairs safely or listening to directions. And for a while now he’s had this notion that he would really like ice skating. That he would do figure eights and go shooting off down the ice and it would be the best fun he’d ever had. Then recently, a local rink had a sponsored session where the skate rental was free and admission was a dollar so off we went.

I was, I confess, nervous. I was worried that Daniel would find it too difficult and freak out and demand to go home NOW. That he would have a roaring tantrum on the ice, about the ice and with the ice. That it would not just be tricky, but would deflate him. I was worried not just about dealing with the days of howling recreations of the ice-skating fiasco, but about his desire to keep trying things he finds tough. I thought, I feared, it would all be a huge wash out.

I was wrong, blissfully, joyfully so wrong. Daniel was worried when he first felt how the ground beneath his feet was suddenly slippery and elusive. He staggered around. He fell. He got up. He perservered. He kept perservering. He shuffled his ungainly five year old self all over that ice for almost two hours. He did his figure eight. He held my hand as I pulled him along. He held on the wall. He held on to nothing. He skated. He glowed. I almost cried with how proud I felt. I don’t care how good my children are at anything. I really don’t. I care desperately how hard they try. And (of course) I want their failures and successes to just tip over enough onto that success side to make them smile as they fall asleep, and to be willing to try even harder. For their lives to prove to them that they CAN. That they CAN.

They can. I believe they can. But they have to be the ones to do it. And I just have to keep on believing. I can do that.

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