“Little kids, little problems –– big kids, big problems,” is what my father-in-law used to say when we fretted about a rough kid at the playground or a stubborn tooth that needed a root canal. It annoyed me no end because a pesky tooth is a pesky tooth, and bullies are a menace, no matter the age. Of course, now that our children are older, (and I am marginally saner) I am starting to understand, better yet, feel what he meant. The stakes are high when three children –– three hearts and thirty toes –– are out in the world. We’re still in the early stages of this next phase, but I can already tell that we’re in for a ride. “You never stop worrying,” my Mum said recently, “no matter how old they are.” It’s an overwhelming thought. Is it Croup? Did he sprain it? How many kids are at the party? Who is driving the car? “Prepare the child for the path, not the path for the child,” was the advise that most resonated in early parenthood. I’m vulnerable to irrational thinking and so resisting the urge to place traffic cones at every (perceived) dangerous spot has taken great effort. Rationally, I know that my placing them there, along with bridges and booby traps, does all of us a disservice. My effort is best spent grounding myself so I can better listen, understand and guide. So that our children learn to work around the divots in the road, build their own bridges, and fend off foes with their own swords. It’s hard and painful. But the goal is to raise adults who deal with their problems.
