The urge to rescue my children remains strong.
It’s something I have to persistently ward off if they are going to continue to be healthy young men.
This is not a new for me.
I remember feeling quite offended when a distant neighbor had a party for her five-year-old and did not invite mine.
My son was almost three.
Now, years later, both boys have been competitive soccer players and they don’t need any help from me. Yet, I feel the urge from the sidelines to have every pass go to them. I get annoyed at the other players who apparently fail to see my boys’ brilliance.
That’s not the only sideline I occupy.
I feel it in almost all their school subjects. I want to kick-start their social networks. I want to save them from ALL disappointment.
I quell these urges, almost always – perhaps erring when a little knightly parenting would have been helpful.
But, I quell the urges in the firm belief that my sons don’t need me to be their armor or savior. I suppress my lurking knight in the belief that every time I interfere with life’s ability to grow my boys up, I delay their maturity and summons life to repeat the lesson I shielded them from learning.
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