My son has always been naturally skiddish. Or… so I thought. It took us months for him to have the confidence to go down the spiral slide at the park near us, and once he did, it seemed like it took ages before he was ready to do it again. He wasn’t a fan of anything high up, and he certainly didn’t like anything spinning. I tried to be right there, putting a guiding hand on him and holding his hand whenever he felt a little bit nervous. If he went to high, I’d give him a gentle reminder, saying “Be Careful!” to the point that anytime he’d get someplace even remotely high off the ground, he’d look at me and say “Be careful!” to make sure I knew he was doing something dangerous and I should be there watching. And by dangerous, I meant sliding down the slide barely 2 lengths of his body in our basement… not a scary drop at all.
I thought that maybe it was okay for him to stay close to the ground, that maybe it’d keep him safe. After my brother broke his collarbone last winter, I knew that it was practically best to wrap my son in bubblewrap to prevent similar injuries. So, time and time again, I stayed right there keeping careful watch on every slide, climbing apparatus, and swingset. I was being a good mom, right? Keeping watch over my son is a good thing.
Until one day, Zach helped me realize maybe I wasn’t doing things right after all.