R.O.U.S.

(fictitious) Dictionary entry:

Rodents Of Unusual Size |ˈrōdnts| |əv| |ˌənˈyoō zh oōəl| |sīz|  NOUN.

A gnawing mammal of the order: Rodentia.  Creature is physically distinguished by strong, constantly growing incisors.  Creature is behaviorally identified by unprovoked, surprise attacks in which they spring forth baring both claws and teeth mauling your jugular with uncanny accuracy.

ORIGIN modern, from romance + adventure ‘The Princess Bride’. You haven’t seen it?  Inconceivable!

(fictitious) Thesaurus entry:

Otherwise known as:  bully, tyrant, tormentor, thug, ruffian.

(actual) Illustrative Example:

Halloween 2009 Cole was sidelined by the stomach flu.  The beloved costume he had chosen months before was put into play all the following year for grand imaginative adventures.  Thus the assumption by me (and we all know where assumptions lead) of it being donned for All Hallows’ Eve 2010 went unchallenged until the last week of October.

Enter the R.O.U.S.

Out on the playground one chilly autumn afternoon Cole was dared by the bully to throw the bright, cheery red rubber foursquare ball at the back of an unsuspecting teacher.  Cole declined.  The horrible wrath of the fourth-grade tyrant was unleashed immediately, and the costume was thoroughly ridiculed.

Despite the fact that the bully lived in a completely different town, and thus there was no chance he would see the costume during trick or treating didn’t matter.  The teeth and claws of the R.O.U.S. had sunk so deeply, shed so much blood, created so much pain and anguish that the damage was permanent.  Cole refused to wear the costume.  I admit that for a moment I contemplated the ultimatum of ‘you go in that costume or you don’t go at all’ in an attempt to annihilate the power of the R.O.U.S.  But I realized the irony that in so doing, all I would actually prove was that I could be an even bigger bully.

With the witching hour fast approaching I found myself driving to the big box store to plunder the bedraggled aisles of lonely leftover costumes. Despite the dearth of options, Cole found a new costume with which he was genuinely thrilled.

And now for the heartbreaking moment.

On the ride home Cole, the tear-streaked cheeks finally showing a grin, asked to keep the packaging so he could take it to school to show the R.O.U.S. that he had, indeed, not worn the scorned garment.  Did I let him?  Yes, for despite my discomfort, I needed to honor his emotional place.

Sometimes in parenting we illuminate the issues, process the events, foreshadow the consequences, and model the expressing of feelings, but we don’t change the outcome.  Children may be sponges, but they don’t necessarily absorb what we offer them immediately.  We give to them our perspective, our life experience, and then we need to acknowledge the journey is ultimately their own.  But secretly I hope that the next time this R.O.U.S. jumps, Cole, armed with the learning from the previous experience, can hear the popping of the Fire Swamp and (metaphorically) singe that sucker, forcing it to release its hold and slink away.  Will it work?  I’ll keep you posted.

The Art of Getting Out of the Way

The sky blue fleece blanket was given to us at a baby shower a decade ago.  It was the item Cole anointed as his transitional object, the joy of his heart.  He named it so early in his language development he could only call it ‘baba’, and still does.  Soon after Cole’s attachment to his beloved became evident, I boldly attacked it with a pair of fabric shears.

Why would a parent do such a thing?  I used to proudly tell others that I had cut Baba into quarters so that Cole never had to wait for it in the wash or worry if we had left it behind somewhere.  Looking back, it was a measure of sanity for me, but at what cost to him?  It seemed inconsequential, innocuous, even beneficial.  But was it?

You see the hand of a preschooler raised in anger and, unable to express their frustration, they lash out and hit your child.  Our instinct is obvious, we should intercede.

No, intercede is too mild a description.  We imagine ourselves a superhero, able to morph into a human shield that instantaneously envelopes our offspring, repels the blow, deflects any pain (meanwhile, in the background, our actions are embellished by the sounds of an orchestra, the air is filled with the swelling notes of victorious horns announcing our triumph over the two foot tall force of evil).

But what if our superhero powers are actually too effective?

If we surround our children in a bubble wrap of safety that is too thick, they never experience the inevitable bumps and bruises of life.  (Please know I am only addressing age appropriate bumps and bruises- not extreme harm, neglect or abuse.)  If we shelter our children too much, they never experience the full range of human emotions.  If they don’t get their feelings injured, how can they truly learn empathy?  If they never experience loss, how will they grow?  Resiliency is a fundamental tool they will need in their own toolbox throughout their lives.  If they are not practicing it when we are there to guide them, how will they handle situations on the playground at elementary school, or at a party in high school or later in life when we are further than an ocean away?

We need to let children be with their losses.

What have I learned in the last decade from Baba?  Embrace your child.  Hold their hand.  Let them know you love them.  Then be there.  Quietly.  Sit with them for as long as it takes.  Don’t rush healing.  Express your emotional solidarity.  Model for them how to process what they feel.  Name the pain.  Feel the hurt.  Watch them as they learn how to cope with it, how to grow from it.  Show them that you know they are capable of surviving.  Let your eyes shine with the belief that they can endure whatever injury occurs.  Watch as they gain strength, fortitude.  For down the road, no matter how much we wish it weren’t true, it will happen again, most likely in bigger and more painful ways.

Over the years, the omnipresence of Baba has diminished.  She no longer rides in the car, unless we are on a road trip, and even then, she is usually packed away in the back.  At home she no longer ventures past Cole’s bedroom door.  Will she be stuffed in the bottom of a box or suitcase when he heads off to college, a symbol of the comfort of childhood?  I don’t know.  Will we have gotten out of the way enough over the years so he can fully develop his resiliency?  I hope so, and I’ll keep you posted.