Coffee Talks ⎮ Teaching Our Kids to Face the Fire and Slay their Dragons

Listen to “Ep. 3 – Teaching Our Kids to Face the Fire and Slay their Dragons” on Spreaker.

Parenting is not for the faint of heart. I’ve said it before and I don’t just say it in regards to the physically hard stuff of restless nights, projectile vomiting, tush cleaning, and boogery kids. There is plenty of that but those things are, dare I say, easy to handle in comparison to the sharp shank that is emotional and mental parent warfare; those bitches will slice you. But it’s in those moments that we become the kind of parent our kids need because in those moments we help them become who they need to be.

This weekend we arrived at Daughter’s first karate tournament. She would be competing in a kata, which is a Japanese word for an arrangement of moves; stepping and turning while keeping balance and form. Two kids simultaneously practice their kata and at the end of the match, the judges blow a whistle and choose who the point is awarded to. Our girl was beyond anxious. You could feel the tightness in her chest just by standing next to her; you could visibly see her trying to swallow her angst and nervous energy.

We started slow. Shoes off. Stand on the mat. Success. Practice for me like we had at the house. Don’t pay any attention to anyone else. She looked so small, guys. And I don’t mean in stature because she isn’t small; she was small in her movements, in the space she took up. The mat was crowded and as she turned to extend her arms, another girl — also practicing her kata — filled the space and roared, “Kiai.” The imbalance in confidence was obvious. Keep going, I reminded. Don’t pay any attention to anyone else. She finished her practice — timid but finished. I hugged her and reaffirmed that I was very proud of her.

She looked at me, eyes glazed. The facade she was trying to uphold was cracking. “I don’t want to do this.” The anxiety and nerves were finding their escape through the tears she could no longer control.

And here, moms, is where the emotional shank punctures. I felt my mom heart legit slowed down, literally, collapse because nothing is worse than watching your kid struggle. I wanted to make it easy for her; to take her hand and tell her it was ok to leave this scary, uncomfortable situation. As parents, our job is to protect them, to make sure they don’t get hurt, right?

Or might I suggest that our job isn’t actually to protect our kids but rather to teach them how to protect themselves?

We don’t tell our kids to stay away from dogs, the street, or the stove. We teach them how to approach a dog, to watchfully look both ways, and to not touch a hot stove. Our job is to guide them on their own path and show them that they can withstand and overcome so that when the time comes they can save themselves. Our job is to show them they are capable and strong and hard-wired to survive tough things.

And in the process, we hope they learn that they are warriors; capable of slaying dragons, fighting shadows and stepping into their light.

She stood on that mat feeling small, scared, and powerless and if I gave her the out she would have taken it. I armed myself with excuses  ses and thought about it. Wasn’t showing up enough? Maybe she isn’t ready? But what good would it have done her if I helped her shrink away? I would have been taking from her the opportunity to realize her own power… and to be her own hero. And the next time she had to face a fire, she’d be less confident that she could.

I covered her little forehead with a million little kisses and acknowledged this was scary, “Let’s practice again. And every time between now and your turn — if you get nervous — practice again. Practice every time you get nervous. And when it’s your turn just do it like practice.”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

“Listen, you’ll go out there and do your kata — the best you can. That’s all you have to do. And when you finish we’ll go home and have an ice cream sundae and celebrate how brave you were today.”

“Even if I don’t get a medal?”

“Especially if you don’t get a medal. Because just standing here is brave.”

I took my seat in the crowd and bit the skin around my fingers as far as I could, a nervous habit I’ve had since I was a kid. Tears at the tip of my throat and eyes scanning the room to make sure I always had her in sight. I desperately wanted to be with her, whispering encouraging Mr. Miyagi style things but I knew she needed to face this fire alone.

When the time for her kata came, she walked on to the mat, bowed and began. She was moving through her arrangement… and then she froze. For a couple of seconds, she froze. And then she faced the fire and kept going. One last turn. Face forward. Bow. She’d done it.

The main judge blew her whistle — a long whistle and then a short one to signal to the rest of the judges to lift their flags and award the point. Unanimous, the flags went up.

Point. Daughter.

I wanted to run down there and lift her above my head and carry her on my shoulders but I was glad I couldn’t. This wasn’t my win. It was hers. I had done my job; I guided her to the fire but she faced it alone. And won it alone. This was her victory.

Medal or no medal, she was already walking out a champion.

P.S. My father’s courageous story of leaving Cuba and Courage is in falling and rising