 |
 |
|
|
 |
A Hard LessonAugust 5, 2003Don't kid yourself. Elementary school is no picnic.Some of the lessons you learn are tough, and schoolyard slings and arrows can pierce tender skin and leave scars that may fade, but never disappear. When she was in second grade, I watched my daughter learn one of those lessons. Shy and serious, she couldn't seem to handle the complicated social structure of second grade relationships. When, without warning, the little girl who had been her best friend suddenly became someone else's best friend, her heart was broken. She had no defense against fractured confidences and cruel taunts. She didn't cry, and she didn't fight. She simply shattered. At 8 years old, she approached each school day the way you or I might approach a minefield we had to cross. She plunged in, grim and determined, and was almost weak with relief when she made it through. Every day was the same. She walked away from me, hugging herself tightly, leading with her chin. Every day I desperately wished for the words that would give her courage, or at least comfort, but everything I said seemed to make things worse. One morning, without stopping to question myself, I called her name. When she stopped, I ran to her, dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms around her. "You will be in my heart every minute, every second, of this day," I whispered to her. Holding her tightly, I could feel her heart pounding before she pushed away from me and hurried up the steps. She mumbled, "I love you" over her shoulder, and ran into the building. I waited for her that afternoon, as usual, and we chatted about nothing in particular on the short walk home. Neither of us mentioned what had happened that morning. We did this every morning for several weeks. I sent her off with the same whispered blessing and she marched bravely into battle. Until of course, we had one of those mornings. We overslept, there wasn't any milk, and the only clean laundry in the house was a basket of unmatched socks. We raced down the hill to the school. Running ahead of me, she stopped at the entrance and turned around. Flashing a smile as bright as sunlight on a mirror, she called out, "It's okay Mom, I know where I'll be", and ran inside. For a long moment I stood there and let the thought wash over me that maybe, just maybe, this time I had gotten it right. That was ten years ago, and this year she is going to college. She is still shy, still serious, and occasionally still as fragile as a soap bubble. I have said the same words to her nearly every morning since that day. To be honest, she doesn't always answer me, and sometimes, she walks out, or slams the car door before I can get the words completely of my mouth. But the important thing is I know she hears them when she needs them. As a parent, that's the best you can hope for. Radio commentary by Cheryl-Anne Millsap 
|
||||||||||||
