The other day, my eldest daughter asked me–begged me–to take her outside to roller skate. Uneasy on her feet, she still requires a stable hand to help her around the tiny paved parking area outside our townhome.
I find this request exhausting. I’d much rather stay indoors, cleaning the kitchen in order to stay my anxious thoughts about whether or not dinner will be ready on time. Not to mention my wily youngest child, who at 10 months is quite mobile, ready to eat rocks, lick oil off the pavement, and other such parenting horrors.
And then I remembered: I’d been inside all day. I’ve been fretful. I rarely say yes to this request.
So I said yes.
And I found myself outside, with both girls: one a blossoming scholar and self-proclaimed fashion designer (at least today anyway), and the other, a tiny bundle of fiery exploration and corporeal learning. One hand held the girl on skates, unsteady as she was. The other held the girl on nearly-brand-new feet, unsteady as she was.
Then it hit me–what an amazing gift, that in this moment, I can stand and be, simply exist in this space and support both children, as they learn these two completely different levels of physical coordination.
It gave me confidence: if there is a place for me to be myself, in my body, as I am, and support these two growing humans simultaneously, then surely there are ways I can see how to do that scholastically, spiritually, psychologically, lovingly.
There is enough of me to go around, because sometimes all they need is my presence.