Look where you're going!

I remember so vividly teaching my kids how to ride their bikes.  Well, not Jordan.  She simply got on the bike and started to peddle around age 3.  But the boys.  I remember.

Andrew and Derek were ready.  Bryce I had to bribe.  But regardless, each one, one at a time when they were around 5 years old,  donned their sneakers, buckled the helmet (always a little too big calling even greater attention to their own tiny demeanor and exceedingly large eyes), and stood alongside, listening to the instructions.

"Don't worry.  I'll be right here.  I'll hang on to you and I won't let you fall.  I will run alongside you until you say to let go.  I'm here.  You're ready.  Let's go."

And we would start. 

But invariably, in their fear of falling, they would lower their gaze to the ground in front of them, under them, and in result, they would topple.  And fall. 

I'd pick them up.  Check the damage.  Apply either kisses or ice depending upon the severity and we would try again.

Peddle.  Peddle.  But they would lower their eyes, then their heads to better focus on the fear.  And fall.

"Don't watch what you are afraid of.  Instead, watch where you want to go."

And they would try to look out, but then ultimately would look down, and then, down they went.

But we kept on.   And each time, they glanced down less and out more until pretty soon, they got it, and said "Let go Mom!  Let go!"  And in their new found focus and skill they would peddle off, going further and further each time.  Until they barely remembered they ever needed me at all.

They learned a lesson.  Me?  Not so fast.

So many days with my now grown 20 year old kids, I focus on my fear.  I look at all the perils in their paths, all the things that might go wrong.  In doing so, I loose my focus, my balance, and in my insecurity I grab out for them, trying to get them to see my fear too.  Sometimes I am successful, and we both careen to the ground.

But more often than not, they keep looking ahead, riding confidently over the potholes and through the puddles.  I run after them, until I hear them yelling once again "Let go Mom!  Let go!"  When I do, and I raise my eyes to see the broad horizon they are confidently moving toward, and only then, I am so very, very happy. 

If they fall, I can still see them.  I can go pick them up and apply kisses or ice depending upon the severity.  But soon the distance between us allows them to pick themselves off before I even get there.  Then, they simply remount, turn to give me an "I'm ok" wave, and start again.

Looking not at their fear, but at their future. 

And teaching me to do the same.