Eight weeks ago I feared this:
And then this:
This is us, me and my two children, loading a U-Haul truck, hitching our car to the back, and driving the rig across the United States.
In June we had to move from Singapore. We lost the benefit of having my children’s international school tuition paid by a company and since we could not justify paying the extremely high tuition ourselves, we returned to the United States.
We spent the summer traveling through the UK and attempted to remain in denial of the fate that faced us upon our return to the U.S.. The reality being that the three of us would be packing up our house on left side of the country and driving it to the right side of the country.
The night before we went to collect the moving truck and car-towing trailer, I felt a little sick. Began to doubt. I probably could not do this. If there had been anyone within range to hear, I would have pleaded for them to save me from my rashness and do this thing for me.
This may seem small to you, as it seems smaller to me to in retrospect, but in the moment, I doubted that I could drive the truck and tow trailer that far on my own. I reviewed the options of abandoning plans or calling in reinforcements, but none of those options were real options. By this point in the process, we were too far along to abandon and our only hope was to carry on.
When I was in college I became a great fan of white water rafting. As often as possible (which was not so often due to limited funds) I would set off with a group of friends to travel a river and the white water rapids that it held for us. Always I was with a group of people I knew and never was I the captain.
It was the captaincy of the drive across the country with our truck and trailer that terrified me. I am an amazing first mate or chief of staff but I do not trust myself as captain.
Nevertheless, it was too late now to abandon the captain’s chair for our move so I took the lesson from my white water experiences and plunged ahead. There is risk in trying to pull out of the rapids and safety in paddling through them. So we paddled ahead with all our little hearts, trying not to over think our little mess, and just keep paddling.
Of course we survived. Of course we had a really enjoyable trip that ended far too soon. Of course we listened to Jim Dale’s recordings of a Harry Potter book for the entire journey (as we do on EVERY journey). Of course we love our new home on the right coast and are happy. We probably could have predicted the success of the drive and the happy settling in this idyllic place, but the emotion of the moment (darn you, fear) can paralyze us into thinking something is impossible.
This Monday morning, this is what my son feared.
My son feared not the middle school building, but the hoards of angry, jeering preteens that fill its hallways.
Let me back up and say that this is not a common occurrence for my son. He has learned to face new schools and new groups of jeering preteens regularly in his life. Never can I recall him actually begging not to have to go to school. But this morning, beg he did.
Last Friday was the first school dance of the year. The week leading up to the first dance my son reported to me that the kids were very excited to see him break dance.
“Oh,” I said. “Why do they think you can break dance?”
[big pause]
He then responded, “I guess I told them that I can.”
And every day of the week, the story grew larger and the expectations mounted until it was time to return to school Friday night for the dance.
[Now I completely adore my son. My children are the apples of my eye, as it were. They are charming, entertaining, loving, compassionate, and completely enjoyable human beings. I choose to spend time with them over any other activity on the planet. So at this point in the story, I must attempt to find some way to blame myself rather than blaming my son for creating this unmeetable break dancing expectation.]
Friday night, my son bailed on the dance. Didn’t go. Skipped out. Chose not to pay the piper, or the ferry man, or whomever we are supposed to pay. Jumped off the bridge, rather than crossing it. (Am I getting any of these sayings right?)
We spent much of the weekend fretting over the no-show. I fell on the sword and attempted to take the blame by telling him that he comes by this tendency to spin a yarn genetically. I have spent my entire life making stories too tall and talking myself into corners that I cannot escape. We talked through and practiced strategies to diffuse the situation and reduce the expectations.
For the casual walk-bys: “I was too tired to return for the dance Friday night.”
For the more friendly guy that sticks with it: “Look, I love trying to break dance and do the few moves that I know but I think everyone is expecting me to be great. I’m not, I just love it and want to learn more.”
And for the gang that corners you in bathroom: “Wish I could have been at the dance but my Olympics diving coach in Paris required me to rush over for a practice session. Peut-être la prochaine fois, mes amis.“
(See? It’s genetic.)
But this morning, as we were walking (being dragged) to the bus stop, we talked it over more.
“You can do this,” I counseled. “Just face it down honestly now and move on with a clean slate.”
He stoically agreed.
I felt at peace for him, smiling at him and his maturity as I stopped to watch him walk the rest of the way to the bus stop. I saw in him a strong young man and I thought, “You are the master of your fate, you are the captain of your soul.”
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
(Invictus, by William Ernest Henley)
And as he approached the bus stop and the group of preteens already there, I also saw my son start limping.
Shoot. Limping. Why didn’t I think of that. We could have practiced.
What Do You Fear, My Lady? 