Seemingly overnight, my four year old has developed a fear of heights. Oh, she loves playing outside as much as ever: Jumping in puddles, running free, scooting off towards the horizon. But when faced with new climbing equipment on an unfamiliar playground, she suddenly freezes mid-step, the panic plain on her face. This development caused quite the scene at a recent birthday party. E desperately wanted to climb her friend's tree fort, but she was also feeling really afraid. With an impressive amount of self-awareness, she would take one step up the ladder, then come back down to gather her courage. Then two steps up, and back down. Then three. It was an effective strategy, really, and would have worked well, had there not been other children to contend with. They pushed past her with confidence and excitement, understandably impatient with her hesitation. I could see the tears welling as she called to me, "They won't let me try!" When I looked away for a moment to check on her sister, my attention was called back by a sharp cry; another parent was prying her from her frozen perch on the ladder. As my daughter protested, the adult testily asked, "Well, what do you want?"
We were both upset. It was time to go.
This scene was still fresh in my mind (and on my heart) as we visited a local playground today. We've been there before, but this was our first return after the cold winter months. As my younger daughter bounded away to fearlessly scale everything in sight, E stayed close to my side, observing for several minutes. She eventually opted to play on one of the less-crowded structures, tentatively walking across a tall platform towards the slide. It took a long time for her to get there. Once again, she doubled back repeatedly, jostled by the children squeezing past. At one point, she spoke up, firmly but politely: "Hey, don't push me." Her blue eyes searched for mine, her hands gripping the railing. She finally made it to the top of the slide and came down slowly, braking with her feet. But she did it. Her relief was palpable. Without missing a beat, she pivoted towards the steps, ready to try again. Her gait was a little lighter, a little faster, a little more sure. Down the slide again, with a smile this time. And again. And again. "High five!" she squealed as she connected with me for just a moment before hurrying back up.
I watched her for a long time, awed by her courage. I could see her, years from now, with the same sure voice and steely eyes, asking for what she needs. Trying again. Unabashedly being herself. And I couldn't be more proud.
As an early childhood teacher, I've long felt pressure to make sure that I was "preparing" students for the schooling that awaits them. I've been fortunate to work in settings where I'm supported in providing a play-based experience. Still, the pressure is always there, like a low-grade noise constantly in the background. And it makes me angry when I consider how much of an early educator's time is spent justifying their use of best practice. Who else has to do that?
But the pressure is something entirely new as a parent, and it's more than just a background nuisance. It's deafening. I'm wrestling, on a daily basis, with anxiety over my daughter's development and the possibilities for how to support her. Her pencil grip isn't yet mature, so OT has been suggested. Will that come through the school district or privately? When can we get an evaluation through the schools? Can I get the time off of work for that? Will the pediatrician agree to write a referral this time? How could we ever afford the specialized private school where therapy is integrated into her day? What if she qualifies for special ed in our neighborhood school? How will she adjust? Like my sweet E, I am paralyzed on the metaphorical ladder while the world jostles past, tsk-ing about kindergarten and readiness and red shirting.
And like E, I'm reminded that it takes a brave voice, in the face of all that pressure, to say, "Don't push me."
Maybe the truth is that she's modeling for me the courage it takes to slow down. Maybe the truth is that she teaches me how to advocate for her.
We were both upset. It was time to go.
This scene was still fresh in my mind (and on my heart) as we visited a local playground today. We've been there before, but this was our first return after the cold winter months. As my younger daughter bounded away to fearlessly scale everything in sight, E stayed close to my side, observing for several minutes. She eventually opted to play on one of the less-crowded structures, tentatively walking across a tall platform towards the slide. It took a long time for her to get there. Once again, she doubled back repeatedly, jostled by the children squeezing past. At one point, she spoke up, firmly but politely: "Hey, don't push me." Her blue eyes searched for mine, her hands gripping the railing. She finally made it to the top of the slide and came down slowly, braking with her feet. But she did it. Her relief was palpable. Without missing a beat, she pivoted towards the steps, ready to try again. Her gait was a little lighter, a little faster, a little more sure. Down the slide again, with a smile this time. And again. And again. "High five!" she squealed as she connected with me for just a moment before hurrying back up.
I watched her for a long time, awed by her courage. I could see her, years from now, with the same sure voice and steely eyes, asking for what she needs. Trying again. Unabashedly being herself. And I couldn't be more proud.
As an early childhood teacher, I've long felt pressure to make sure that I was "preparing" students for the schooling that awaits them. I've been fortunate to work in settings where I'm supported in providing a play-based experience. Still, the pressure is always there, like a low-grade noise constantly in the background. And it makes me angry when I consider how much of an early educator's time is spent justifying their use of best practice. Who else has to do that?
But the pressure is something entirely new as a parent, and it's more than just a background nuisance. It's deafening. I'm wrestling, on a daily basis, with anxiety over my daughter's development and the possibilities for how to support her. Her pencil grip isn't yet mature, so OT has been suggested. Will that come through the school district or privately? When can we get an evaluation through the schools? Can I get the time off of work for that? Will the pediatrician agree to write a referral this time? How could we ever afford the specialized private school where therapy is integrated into her day? What if she qualifies for special ed in our neighborhood school? How will she adjust? Like my sweet E, I am paralyzed on the metaphorical ladder while the world jostles past, tsk-ing about kindergarten and readiness and red shirting.
And like E, I'm reminded that it takes a brave voice, in the face of all that pressure, to say, "Don't push me."
Maybe the truth is that she's modeling for me the courage it takes to slow down. Maybe the truth is that she teaches me how to advocate for her.
