August 19, 2006

To me, one of the processes most fascinating about my children is their growing independence. It's a powerful and potent mix of emotions I grapple with as I watch my children take their steps out into the world.

Recently, my middle son (he is eight years old now) has had to deal with a spill of boredom, bad mood, temper outbreaks and just being upset at his older brother (he is ten years old). Part of me knew that this was simply just a case of "too long a summer". All camp activities had ceased, play-options had been exhausted and repeated too many times. Some friends and their families were taking this last opportunity before the school-year routine would take over again to grab a few more vacation days.

One evening, after another day of visiting different activities without really getting into anyone of them, my son came up to me and simply announced "I'm going for a bike-ride." I hesitated for a moment. It was after 7pm, it was getting dark, and he would only have about 45 minutes before biking was no longer an option for the day. AND--MORE IMPORTANTLY--HE HAD NEVER BEFORE GONE BIKING BY HIMSELF. But I saw the spark in his eyes and consented. "When you come back, I said, dinner will be ready." I watched him take his bike out of the garage, put his helmet on and off he went. One quick glance to the left and right and left again and their he was riding out of our drive-way.

I watched every minute go by. Meanwhile, my older son was sitting in the kitchen reading through the latest novel of "Warriors" and my youngest (eight months old) began, at the same time, to pull himself up on the various chairs, drawers and other things he could find to hold on.
It was a strange experience. Of course, I started to worry after about 15 minutes. But I forced myself to be calm. It doesn't last long though. I calculated: If he isn't back by the time the baby is in his crib sleeping, I'll go look for him. And he wasn't. About 35 minutes had passed. It was still light enough outside not to worry too much. But I worried nevertheless. My older son barely picked up on my thoughts. I just told him to watch the baby, in case he cried (he never does, just goes to sleep) ran into the garage and was just pulling out the van, when he arrived back. There he was proud, smiling, sweating and so incredibly happy. Of course, he wondered where I was driving. In the briefest of possible ways I just said "Oh, I just wanted to look for you." But I was curious, where had he gone? So, the two of us drove together the path he had taken from our house. He remembered every turn. When we came back--after about two miles--I said, but how come it took you forty minutes. Well, he said, I came back once, but nobody was looking for me out of the window, so I went around another time!

There it is, he came back, he did look for me, he turned around (just as they say those first steps away work, when your baby checks in with you, but keeps crawling away). I didn't feel bad that I wasn't waiting by the window. In fact, I think it was good that way. He knew I was thinking of him, he knew that it would be okay. He did feel strong and confident.