Ever since I got worked up enough to write my last post “Protecting the Children”, I’ve been on a bit of a tear about it in my mind. It’s so hard to toe the line between teaching kids how to move through life and making sure you aren’t handing them responsibilities too big for small shoulders. It’s a constant struggle, a constant question, and I’m never completely sure I’m doing it right. But below is another example, taken from the kids’ swim lessons the past two weeks, of what I mean about teaching and supporting children through challenges versus just protecting them. It also hits on another topic that means more and more to me as my children get older–grace.

The swim lessons are meant to be one on one, but because the twins are only three years old and they’ve been away from swim since the pandemic, the director of the program suggested they share a teacher for a bit and see how it went. Well, predictably, Ukiah wanted to get in the pool and go while Emil didn’t want to get in the pool at all. So when winter session ended, I requested a separate teacher for my go-getter so he could have more time in the water.

On the first lesson of Spring session, we met Ukiah’s new swim teacher. All seemed well for most of the half hour, but toward the end, I saw the new guy dunk Ukiah, who came up yelling (in an angry way, not a distressed or frightened way) only to be dunked under again.

I immediately started making my way around the pool, keeping my eyes on them as I went. Ukiah was mad and new guy was talking to another adult in the next lane of the pool, not really paying attention. When he did finally look down, Ukiah yelled that he wanted to go back to the edge. New guy essentially blew him off before trying to cajole him into staying with zero success, eventually giving in and heading to the side of the pool where I was standing.

By the time they made it to the edge, the lesson was over and all three of my kiddos were getting out of the cold pool begging for their towels while the teachers started cleaning up all the toys and floaties. I got everyone dry and clean and dressed and as I buckled Ukiah into the car, I asked how he liked his new teacher. He replied that he didn’t (no surprise there) and he wanted to go back to his original teacher with Emil.

I looked him in the eyes while he said it, then I nodded and asked him why. I knew the answer, but I wanted to see if he could and would verbalize it. He replied that the new teacher kept dunking him and he didn’t like being dunked. Once it was clear he could say it himself, I asked him if the new teacher stopped dunking him, would he be willing to give him another chance. He said he would.

This is the crux of it for me. This is a change I want to see in the world. It’s not easy to watch your child have something happen to them that they don’t want. And it’s not easy to watch your child yell at someone who isn’t listening to them. I don’t think anyone would fault me if I’d told that instructor right then that the lesson was over and that I would be requesting a new teacher for my son. In fact, some will fault me because I didn’t! And if Ukiah were less inclined to stand up for himself or had more trouble putting his concerns into words, I might have chosen to handle it for him while he watched. But knowing my boy and knowing that he will encounter many more people and situations in life where he isn’t being listened to, I chose to be his back-up while he handled it himself.

The next week, as we drove to swim, we talked about what he wanted to say, I explained I’d be there with him and that if the new teacher didn’t listen, I would make sure he got someone who did and if no one else was available, he could go back to sharing teachers with Emil. When we arrived and the new teacher walked up, Ukiah said exactly what he’d practiced,

“I don’t like it when you dunk me and I don’t want you to dunk me anymore.”

The new instructor was clearly caught off-guard and a little uncomfortable. His eye brows went up and he looked at me for help, but I didn’t say anything, just waited. After a beat, he looked back down at Ukiah and said,

“I’m sorry, buddy, I won’t dunk you anymore. We’ll find other cool stuff to do today.”

And they did!

I couldn’t have been prouder of Ukiah nor could I have hoped for a better response from his instructor. I love that he apologized then backed up that apology with his actions. After the lesson, Ukiah was happy and excited to go again next week. Even more importantly, he managed a conflict in his own life with his own words. He didn’t need me to do it for him, he just needed me to show him how.

As for grace, one of my wishes for the world we’ll hand over to our kids someday is that we cancel cancel culture. The term “cancel culture” is really just another way of saying “zero tolerance” which is really just another way of saying “There is no hope of forgiveness or growth here.” I don’t want my children cancelled when they’re wrong or make mistakes and they will make mistakes! I want them to have the opportunity to learn from them, to be forgiven, and to grow and change for the better.

So thank you for coming to my “ted talk” with no real punch line because parenting never wraps up and each new situation comes with it’s own set of factors to be considered. All I know is that if I want my children to live in a world full of grace, they’re going to have to know how to give it.

Yesterday I was reading about the controversy surrounding Roald Dahl’s books and the general concept of editing children’s books to make them more “appropriate.” My personal opinion is that we shouldn’t edit or ban books, but that’s not what I’m writing about this morning. As I dove in, reading both sides of the argument, I was drawn into other articles about the current furor about drag queens reading to kids and trans people, well, existing, and I started to see a common thread. In all these arguments for banning, editing, restricting freedom, etc. Almost all of them at some point say, “We need to protect the children!”

Reading that phrase over and over got me thinking about my job as a mother and I discovered something about myself: I almost never see my primary role as protecting my children.

Generally, I believe my primary role fluxes between making sure they know how deeply I love them/how worthy they are of that love and giving them information about how to navigate the world effectively. Protecting them really only becomes a priority in the presence of an immediate threat. Having read all of Roald Dahl’s books as a child, having seen numerous, amazing drag shows, and having met several trans people, I can’t find a single threat to my children there. Honestly, children who haven’t been taught to hate anyone make some of the very best teachers in how to treat people who are different from them–with curiosity, an open mind, and an open heart. The real threats to our kids are often things we can’t protect them from at all.

I mean, I have managed to save my kids from death and/or disaster a time or three, but I wasn’t able to protect my daughter from being bullied at school earlier this year. I wasn’t able to protect her from the pain and confusion she felt over the death of her beloved dog, Orion. And I wasn’t able to protect any of my three children from the chaos of the pandemic that swept through our world, destroying our routines and social connections.

What I was able to do, was support my daughter at home by talking about why bullies do what they do, who could help her at school, and giving her strategies for making good friends. When Orion died, I wasn’t able to prevent the hurt, but I was able to be honest with her, cry with her, and show her ways we can grieve and honor the ones we love when they have to leave us. And through the pandemic, I couldn’t make their lives stay the same, but I was able to show all of my kids how to let go of what’s familiar, even when it’s so hard, and find new ways to connect with others and enjoy life as it is for however long it needs to be that way.

So yeah, I would fight and die for my children in a heartbeat, but my job is not to protect them from what’s inside a book, it’s to talk with them about what they read in books. My job is not to raise them to be afraid of what they don’t understand, it’s to help them understand what they’re afraid of. My job is not to use politics to wrap them up in a cozy illusion of sameness, but to show them the beauty and fun that can be found in our differences.

I’m not here to protect them from the world, I’m here to give it to them, in all it’s flawed, frightening, difficult, beautiful, awe-inspiring glory, along with the love and tools they need to survive, connect with others, and enjoy themselves here.

Alright, folks, it’s time for me to switch things up a bit. My writing has been awfully heavy of late, and I need a break to feel a little lighter and brighter. To that end, it’s time to tell a story that is, without question, my favorite story to tell. It’s about my dad, who tried to get me to promise to never tell it to anyone, but instead, I promised to share it every chance I ever get. So I’d be remiss not to share it here where literally anyone can read it! (If you don’t know him, don’t worry, his sense of humor is top notch and I have his permission to share.)

I was fifteen years old and had just walked home from school. As I opened the front door, I could hear my parents arguing, which was pretty rare, so I was going to just slip in quietly and go around the kitchen through the living room to my bedroom. But the minute I came in, dad threw up his hands and stormed out of the kitchen and my mom heaved a big sigh. She was standing at the stove stirring something and didn’t look at me when she said, “Jesse, I have a question for you.” She sounded serious, so I braced myself, but nothing could have prepared me for what she asked:

“Do you have a pair of crotchless underwear?”

It took me a minute to process her words. I’d never even seen a pair of crotchless underwear, much less worn them!

“No!” I yelled. “Gross!”

She finally looked at me, but her expression was concerned. “I told your dad I didn’t think so, but I guess he was folding laundry and it was mostly yours and he says he found a pair of crotchless underwear.”

I opened my mouth to tell her they were absolutely NOT mine, but before I could get a single word out, my dad stormed back into the kitchen, holding up the offending article of clothing, red-faced and yelling, “ARE THESE YOURS?!?!?”

All was silent for a solid five seconds.

Then mom and I started laughing. We laughed so hard we cried. We laughed so hard we could barely breathe. We literally rolled on the kitchen floor laughing. All the while my dad, still extremely upset, kept yelling, “WHAT?! WHAT?! THIS ISN’T FUNNY!”

Apparently, he had only told mom about the undies, he hadn’t actually shown them to her. If he had, she would have probably done what I did then. Still laughing and crying and trying to breathe, I got up off the floor, walked up to him, and flipped what he was holding right side up, so he could see it was, in fact, not crotchless underwear, but rather my sports bra for basketball . . . which he had been holding upside down . . .

He took a moment to process what he was seeing, then immediately said, “Don’t tell anyone! Promise me you won’t tell anyone!” but mom and I both assured him we would, indeed, be telling everyone. : )

So there you go, my very favorite story to tell. I hope you had a good laugh and I hope you’ll help my mom and I keep our promise by sharing it!