Kids and Boxes

Courtesy of iStock/choreograph

Anticipation—bulging anticipation.

 

The moment finally arrives, bringing with it an unimaginable joy. You soak it all in, not wanting to miss even the tiniest detail. You open little hands that are curled into fists and count each finger as you take in the length and shape of each nail and cuticle. You want those hands open so you can fill them with all the things this world says will make them happy.

 

The eyes. Now, the eyes are a different story altogether. Once you look into those eyes—filled with hope, wonder, and a need for you—you know you will never be the same. You will forever strive to provide opportunities for those eyes to glow.

 

And those precious little lips. The first time they curl into a smile for you, you are hooked, and there is nothing you want more than to see that smile again and again.

 

That’s where it starts … at some point between “hello” and that first smile, you begin to dream big, scary, seemingly impossible dreams for a part of you that fits perfectly in the crook of your arm. You want your precious child’s life to be easier, fuller, and more lucrative than your own.

 

You want their life to be full of smiles.

 

Click on the news during the holidays and the evidence of this instinct’s darker side glares at you as parents fight over a limited toy. There was even a reality series for a while (I don’t remember the station) where elaborate sweet sixteen birthdays were planned and celebrated with amounts of purchases I couldn’t comprehend or ever dream of affording—yet I understand the desire to see that precious smile again.

 

I think that by nature, we all have the tendency to please others (at least I do) and that is only multiplied in our role as parent. I find myself eager to ensure smiles in my own children … and want them to smile at the things that I believe should make them happy. I only want the happiest of outcomes to grace my children’s lives. So I start defining their success as status, happiness and joy, and ease in the presence of wealth.

 

Merriam-Webster defines success as follows: degree or measure of succeeding; favorable or desired outcome; the attainment of wealth, favor, or eminence.

 

And, you see, success is not only defined by Merriam-Webster, but by our society and the world around us. We place value on wealth, position, and honors—a person is successful when he obtains these things.

 

For that reason, I started picking out boxes—nice, neat boxes to package my kids in and present them to the world. Boxes that would establish wealth. Boxes that would achieve coveted, elite positions. Boxes that would bestow honors.

 

I started picking out boxes with only the best of intentions: I hoped to make my children’s lives easier.

 

My daughter has always been a gymnast. Her life—our lives—revolved around her desire and passion for gymnastics. Six months of repetitive injuries changed her gymnastics dream. She responded to her injuries by saying, “Mom, I don’t think I want to do gynmastics anymore.” At first, I thought, she is just frustrated from all of the setbacks. Then, I thought, this is just a phase and it will pass. When the frustration continued and the “phase” didn’t pass, I chalked her response up to fear … and adolescence. I bargained with myself: This is what she has always wanted to do. Could she really just change her mind?

 

At around the same time, my son, after seeing his older brother graduate with a four-year degree, confided to me that he wanted to take a different path. He said he wasn’t interested in offices, but engines instead.

 

Both of my children’s choices left me questioning: But shouldn’t they do this, or shouldn’t they do that, and couldn’t they make more money doing this, and why would they want to do that?

 

It’s not wrong for me to think of my kids’ futures and want to lighten their loads, but I don’t want to create competing voices in their heads through the process. I want to be included in their decisions and in their futures, of course, but more than that, I want confident kids who will come to me and openly discuss their hopes and dreams. I want them to do so without fear that I will disagree and force them into a box I designed and expect them to live in. My kids know what their hearts are telling them. And the hard truth—I am not God. I don’t know which path will be lighter. I don’t have a crystal ball that tells me how it all turns out. I don’t know which box is best suited to them. I have to trust that deep within each of my children is a guide—a gut instinct that drives them towards their passion. I am not vying for superiority over that guide.

 

I think sometimes we miss the big picture as parents. We create boxes based off of our past experiences—and especially our fears. I can look back on my life and the choices I have made and I can point to experiences and decisions I don’t want my kids to repeat. But my kids are smart. They know what brings them joy. They know what challenges them. They know what thoughts and dreams race across their hearts and through their minds. It is my job (and all of our job) to remain open to glimpses of those thoughts and dreams—to ask questions, and to guide these precious pieces of ourselves down a path that brings a sparkle to their eyes and breathless conversations of joy to our lives.

 

Our passions won’t be our kids’ passions. Our kids were uniquely designed to fulfill a purpose all their own. If we will just stand by, willing and available, our kids will package themselves. They will decorate their own boxes with their own personal choice of plain or printed-paper, and maybe even attach a curly or simple bow. Our only job is to love them, and to encourage and help them to grow into who they were designed to be.

 

Will you join me in waiting and watching to see which box they pick?