“Two great things you can give your children: one is roots, the other is wings.”
–Hodding Carter
Sometimes I read something that sticks with me, changes my perspective, and helps me see that maybe there’s a better way than the way I’ve been doing it.
That is what happened last year when I read the insights of Debbie Phelps, mother of world champion swimmer, Michael. In
the interview, Debbie described how Michael packed and carried his swim bag from an early age. When he forgot his goggles in a competition and looked to his mother for assistance, she raised her empty hands and he swam without them.
I must admit, those words were difficult to read.
I’d packed a swim bag for my daughters that very day. And I knew that if goggles were forgotten, I would have frantically tried to find some … so their eyes wouldn’t burn… so they wouldn’t be uncomfortable … so they wouldn’t fail.
And I knew what I was doing was a disservice to my children.
Why? Because my then 5-year-old child and eight-year-old child were fully capable of packing swim bags for themselves.
The bag was the glaring example, but I knew there were probably more instances when I did something for my kids that they could do for themselves. And the reason? Because doing it myself was faster, less messy, and more convenient. Doing it myself meant less chance of things being forgotten and less chance I’d hear complaining. Plus, I’d spent many years as the drill sergeant in charge—so letting go of control and allowing things to simply BE was hard for me.
But by doing things for my children that they could do for themselves, I was preventing them from reaching their full potential.
The truth hurts, but the truth heals—and brings me closer to the person and parent I want to be.
So as we prepared for this summer’s swim team season, I knew there was something more important than purchasing new suits or goggles; it was time each girl had her own swim bag.
When I informed the girls of the new expectation, the girls were elated. They happily embraced the idea of having their own colorful bag and packing their necessary items each day. My oldest daughter suggested they purchase small bottles of shampoo and conditioner so they could go and shower by themselves after practice. For a split second, I felt the grip of my Type A tendencies. But what if she leaves her suit in the shower? Who will hand her the dry towel if she gets soap in her eyes? Who will wring out her soggy bathing suit?
I knew the answer: the girls would do it for themselves.
My children were not only capable, but they were ready and eager to do these things on their own. It was time for me to stand back and let them.
Three weeks of independent bag carrying and showering have occurred. Much to my surprise, clean underwear has never been forgotten, no one has struggled to dry herself off, and swimsuits have not been left in the shower. And if these things hadoccurred, it would be okay. She might have been a little uncomfortable. She might have had to problem-solve. She might have had to use a bit of her savings to buy a replacement—but it wouldn’t have been the end of the world.
Plus, I’ve noticed something. As these girls carry their bags into practice and shower without their help of their mom, independence is being seen in other areas. In fact, their blossoming independence inspired me to sign up to be a timer at the first meet of the season. I knew this meant the girls would have to get themselves to the Clerk of Course when their age group was called for their events. For a moment, worries flooded my mind. What if they miss their event? What if my six-year-old gets distracted on the way to the Clerk of Course by a ladybug or a Popsicle? Who will help them put on those pesky swim caps?
So when my six-year-old daughter’s age group was called, I watched nervously from my timer position in lane five. Instantly, the two girls sprung into action working quickly and efficiently to collect swim caps and goggles. When the first attempt to cover my youngest daughter’s curly hair was unsuccessful, Big Sister kept trying until she got it. Once the cap was secured, the girls assuredly walked around the perimeter of the pool like they owned the place.
Before my youngest child walked up to the official to get checked in, the two sisters exchanged high fives.
“Good luck!” Big sister called to Little Sister.
And then, although her presence was no longer needed, my oldest child stood back and watched her little sister for a few moments to make sure she was in the right place. I never told my daughter to do that; she made that decision for herself.
A few minutes later, my youngest child climbed up on the starting block and dove headfirst after a year of
starting from the water. In my position on the pool’s edge, I had a clear view of my child’s face. The look of pure joy and uncontainable pride made its way down lane 3.
When my child emerged from the water and proudly accepted her ribbon, I cheered and cheered, but she didn’t hear me. She didn’t even look in my direction. Because her Big Sister was there waiting—ready to hug her, congratulate her, and celebrate her hard work.
And that’s when tears sprung to my eyes.
Not because my children didn’t even glance my way.
Not because I could see clearly that as time goes on, I will be needed less and less.
And not because my children were making decisions without me.
I cried because I was witnessing a wondrous sight. Right before my very eyes, I saw a glimpse of my children reaching their full potential.
And I knew that a moment such as this can only be seen from a distance—when I stand back and watch in quiet joy as my children soar, carrying my love and support upon their small, but sturdy shoulders.
