I'll be on the other end
to hear you when you call,
angel you were born to fly
and if you get too high
I'll catch you when you fall
I'll catch you when you fall
~Nickel Creek
I had the opportunity to help chaperone Zoe's class field trip to the local fire station the other day.
Confession: I might have been more excited than she was about this opportunity. She wasn't embarrassed that I was coming or anything, as I imagine she will be in another five years. It's just that in the last month or so I'd been trying to find my way into her classroom without edging into helicopter parent land, and this opportunity finally struck. As soon as that note came home with a call for chaperones, I had it filled out and returned to her backpack within seconds.
It's a strange adjustment to go from having tabs on exactly what one's child is doing 24/7 to suddenly having thirty hours per week that are something of a black hole. I mean, I know generally what she is up to: learning to write ABCs, twice per day recesses, lunch at 11 a.m., the occasional birthday party for a classmate. I soak up everything my daughter is willing to tell me about how those thirty hours are filled, and then I ask even more about it. Which friends did you play with? What letters did you learn today? Which books did your teacher read today? Were there any students missing today? What was something particularly kind that you saw happen? Was anyone doing anything unkind?
The morning of the field trip came, and with it the realization that I'd need to be ready to leave the house by 8:15 a.m. Mark walked Zoe to school, giving me a few extra minutes to get ready. In a flurry of showering, hair styling, dressing, coffee drinking, potty going and goodbye kissing as he returned and I left him to take Joel to preschool, I raced out the door and, with Phoebe strapped to my chest, arrived with just enough time to meet a few other parent chaperones waiting outside the classroom. I chatted with Adrian's mom who had her toddler in a stroller - we often see each other at pick up time. We're both new to this kindergarten world. I introduced myself to Britney's mom and I found out that her older child had this teacher before and loved her. "She makes the kids work hard, but it's good for them," she said.
I'm not too concerned about how much work they do at this point, I think to myself, but I really want to know that my daughter is making friends. I want her to like school and learning, but I want her to love making friends.
There were at least seven other parent chaperones, but I didn't have time to meet them all before Zoe's teacher, smiling, popped out from the classroom and invited us in.
Like a herd of somewhat nervous sheep, we shuffled inside the classroom and stood facing the students who were seated on the floor. My eyes searched for Zoe's, and we smiled when we spied each other.
"Ok, students - these are our parent chaperones who will be going with us today," said the teacher. She started naming us so we could wave to introduce ourselves: Adrian's mom, Britney's mom, Elliot's dad...Zoe's mom. Five years and counting, and I'm still a little floored that one of my titles is "Zoe's mom". I smiled and waved my hand just slightly.
"Ok, if you have a parent here, why don't you go and stand next to them," said the teacher.
Zoe's hair swung back and forth as she jumped up and race-walked over to me, excited to get close enough to tug at Phoebe's leg. I smiled again and rubbed her head, shushing her as her teacher assigned the remaining students to a chaperone. Alison came to join us, and we headed out the door following the groups in front of us.
It was a walking field trip, so we set out on the sidewalk along a busy street. I took the outside edge, and Alison walked in between me and Zoe. Unsurprisingly, Zoe chatted away with Alison and other surrounding classmates as we walked. It was a golden opportunity for eavesdropping, and I was so focused on trying to listen in on their conversation over the noise of cars driving by that I only noticed the bus sign in front of Zoe in the split second before I watched her walk smack dab into it.
She bounced back in shock and there were slight gasps all around from parents and classmates alike as we paused. I caught her eyes, which were starting to water, and furrowed my brow with concern.
"Are you o--" I started, echoing several voices around me.
I was cut off by a glare I had never seen from her, a silent stare-down that made it clear: the only thing that would have been more embarrassing for her in that moment would have been for her mom to draw attention to the fact that she got a little bumped, a little bruised, and might need a little TLC. How embarrassing.
I choked that question back into my throat as she swallowed her own tears; I pretended I hadn't seen anything, she pretended nothing happened, or at least that she wasn't hurt by it. I tugged at Alison's hand to get us moving again, before the spectacle of it all might have begun to be too much for Zoe.
Within seconds, she had once again become her talkative, zesty self, forgetting the bump and the gasps. We made it to the fire station, the kids were enamored with the trucks and gear and volume of the sirens. By the time we returned to the classroom, I was sure Zoe had forgotten all about the incident, and I made sure not to bring it up again.
But her stare stayed with me.
I called Mark to share it with him. We laughed together over the phone; though he hadn't seen the stare, he could imagine it. In less than eight years, she'll be shooting us the teenaged version of that stare. I know that had we been at home, or been alone when she walked into that bus sign, she wouldn't have hesitated to run to me for comfort, or at least allow me to come to her.
But somewhere between the delivery room and the classroom, she has begun to learn to let go, even to push away. It's the path that has been set in motion ever since her eyes met mine as she was laid on my chest on that hot October evening. She took her first breath after a push from deep within me; somehow even the laws of physics demand an equal and opposite push back.
I've been thinking much lately, through various circumstances, about how little control I have over her life. Influence, yes. So much incredible influence. But control? I still like to think that I have some control, but what I tend to think of as control is just a very heavy amount of influence. I almost had the chance to keep her from bumping into that bus stop sign, but the fact that I wasn't able to in time reminded me that I've never been able to protect her from every bump, scrape, bruise and hurt, self-inflicted or not.
What I can do is teach her to look up. I can teach her to anticipate proverbial (and literal) roadblocks, not to be surprised by them. But most of all, I hope to help her look for the One who promises to be with her as she approaches them, is knocked down by them, and chooses to move forward despite them. May his joy be her strength, and may she not push him away.
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