But they might get hurt

By Shelley

"What are you doing?" my mother asked on the other end of the telephone.

"A. is weed-whacking the yard, and I'm sitting on the porch waiting for her to cut her toe off," I answered.

I took it as a sign of maturity in my mothering journey that I was able to sit calmly, not hovering over the pre-teen as she wielded the weed-whacker around the edges of the flower beds. My usual modus operandi is to stand behind her, shouting helpful instructions over the whine of machine, instructions like "Be careful!" and "Watch your foot!"

My concern over my kids getting hurt borders on paranoia sometimes. When they were babies, I strapped them in tight whenever they were in their carriers, even if the thing was just sitting on the floor beside the couch. When they took their first steps, I hovered behind them, waiting to catch them when they fell. As they grew, my litany gained phrases like "Not so fast, you'll trip" and "No, you can't do that; you might fall."

I was surprised to see this side of my character come out. As a child, I ran and climbed trees and scaled fences. I would hang from the monkey bars or climb to the garage roof, just to jump off. I made it through childhood largely unscathed, but for a few stitches and a broken ankle.

But as a mother, I have nightmares about my children gaining bruises and bloody noses and scraped knees. I worry that whatever marks they acquire through the rough-and-tumble that is normal childhood play will reflect poorly on my ability to protect them. I'm the mother who, at the restaurant playland, lectures other children about not climbing backwards up the slide and cautions them not to push and shove.

On the ball diamond, I cringe at the tumbles and trips and baseballs that bounce off little shins. When my teenager starts making noise about getting a job at McDonalds, I envision horrific scenarios of her cutting her fingers off while slicing up salad ingredients. I can't stand the thought of her being anywhere near the vicinity of a deep fryer or hot grill, because, well, accidents happen.

But today, I found myself letting go a little. The world is a dangerous place, and eventually, they're going to have to go out in to it. I've been saying, "Be careful" for nearly 15 years now, and I have to hope that some of it stuck. It's time to take a little step back and stand by with the Band-Aids.

Which came in mighty handy when she cut her shin with the weed-whacker this afternoon.

Comments

[AGK]

Well, you've described me well enough. I just talked Stacey into gymnastics in the fall, and then we watched the USA team perform (or something) and I got worried. How can I watch her learn that kind of stuff without yelling from the sidelines to "be careful!"???

[daddydaycare]

Remember the movie Kramer vs. Kramer? That said, it's much harder to watch than it is to get hurt.

[Robin]

I am sorry your daughter cut her shin but it made me laugh at the end. I worry about Lillianna and I try sooooooo hard not to be the psychotic over protective mother from hell and sometimes I succeed!
When I was around 9 yrs old I used to climb up on our roof and sit up there sometimes. I can't even remember how the heck I got up there!
There were no bike helmets or car seats and I am still alive. Imagine that!
There is a potential risk for danger no matter what we do or where we go. Living is basically dangerous! So I say what the heck...let's live....but wear a seat belt and always carry band aids!...and a cell phone to call 911.....and a first aid kit......