Parenting:
LOST SWORD
by Joyce Maynard
from Domestic Affairs”, 1987
I want to tell you the stories of two different times my chldren lost
a beloved possession. One took place over a year ago. The other, last
week. Call it a before and after, if you will. Meaning, before I stopped
trying to be a perfect mother. And after I realized, I never could be
one. Before I gave up trying to insulate my children's lives from disappointment
and sorrow. And after I came to understand that part of growing up requires
learning to accept losses, and recognize that life goes on in spite of
them.
When we first meet up with our Perfect Mother, it's 1988, and she has just recently emerged from the double whammy of Christmas and the period shortly after, during which all three of her children's birthdays fall. Which means she has devoted substantial amounts of time and energy (never mind, expense) to making sure that their dreams come true. Or, to be more accurate, making sure that the material possessions they longed for have been bought, wrapped, and presented to them.
The role of Perfect Mother will be played by me. Protected child, in today's performance, will be played by my son Charlie. Who had spent the better part of that year longing for, and dreaming of, a particular toy pirate ship, equipped with rigging, masts, treasure chests, gold coins and swords. If there happens to be a six year old boy in your family, I probably don't need to tell you that the most beloved part of this endlessly covetted gift was not the ship, or any of its euqipment, or even the pirates. It was those swords. Each of which measured around one half inch, in length.
So, Charlie got the pirate ship for his birthday, and for the better part of a week he played with nothing else. Then one day his friend Jesse came over, and the two of them played pirates all afternoon. When it was time to drive Jesse home after dinner, they were still going strong. So as we headed out to the car, I noticed Charlie was carrying not only a handful of pirates, but also, their swords. And being one of those mothers who tries to keep one step ahead of her children at all times -- so as to anticipate potential sources of trouble, and head them off at the pass -- I told Charlie not to bring the sword in our car. It was dark. It was late. The car was messy. The sword would be lost. He would end up being miserable. Which meant, so would I.
But Charlie stood firm. He would take care of the sword. And so, reluctantly, I yielded, and we headed out onto the road for the ten mile drive to Jesse's house. We were already halfway home -- and the hour approaching bedtime -- when I heard a gasp in the back seat, and then a sound more ominous than tears: dead silence.
"Charlie," I said, feeling my neck go tense. "You lost the sword, didn't you?" Yes, he sniffled quietly. It had fallen out the back window, onto the highway. Somewhere in the last mile.
I counted to ten. And then (with full knowledge of the disastrous time, some years before, when I had ripped apart most of our house, in search of my daughter Audrey's Crystal Barbie shoe) I told my son I'd do a U-turn and drive back along that stretch of road, one time, and one time only, to see if we could spot the sword.
I put on my high-beams. Slowed down to fifteen miles per hour. Didn't spot the sword. Six u-turns later, we noticed a faint glimmer in the darkness. I pulled over. Raced into the road (my mind flashing, for an instant, on the image of some nameless stranger asking my children, in years to come, "How did your mother die?" And they, shaking their heads as they answered: "Squashed by an 18-wheeler, trying to pick up a Playmobil sword in the middle of a poorly lit two lane highway.").
I survived the tricky maneuver. Returned the sword to its owner. And proceeded home. Although I'm obliged to add, that in my overwrought and exhausted state, a mile from our house I overestimated a turn and drove our car into a ditch. Which meant, we ended up walking home in total darkness. But by golly, we still had that sword.
Now we cut to a more recent event -- namely, a day last week, when this same son found himself the indescribably proud winner of a sports medal. Like the pirate sword, it was gold and shiny and equally beloved. It hung on a ribbon, but Charlie was so proud and happy that he'd won it, that he kept taking it off to study it up close.
"I'd keep that medal around my neck if I were you," I told him. (Once, twice. A third time.) "Don't worry, Mom," he said. "I'll be careful."
The next time I spotted my son he was no longer holding his medal. It wasn't hanging around his neck either. And one look at his face told me he'd lost it.
Of course I put an arm around his shoulder and said that was too bad. But this time, I did not spend the next two hours helping him search. Didn't offer to replace the medal, or give him one I had in fact just earned, myself, in a beginners' tennis match. Which would not have been an adequate substitute anyway.
The good news is
that tennis is not the only thing I've been working on lately. Letting
go of the idea that I can make my children's lives perfect is another.
Here's what I know (and sometimes, though not always, I may even allow
this knowledge to inform my behavior): The first thing I want to do as
a parent is to protect my children from pain and loss. But another crucial
thing every parent must do -- and I've been shakey on this one -- is to
raise children who can survive pain and loss. The only way to do that,
of course, is to show them, by our own example, that loss is endurable.
And truthfully, my children are better at understanding this, sometimes,
than their mother.
The person who couldn't
bear to lose that sword was myself, of course the same person who once
viewed the loss of a Barbie shoe as some kind of tragedy. These days I'm
trying to show them, instead, that sad things can happen, and will. And
you can still be happy. Which -- not all the time maybe, but more often
than not -- we are.
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