doing what we all do.
A
s my husband went to get the wrench, I started the pep talk with HJ. She’d been riding her bubblegum pink bike with a white wicker basket for over a year now and the thought had never crossed her mind to take off her training wheels. Never, that is, until her good friend Chuck moved in down the street. He whipped around our cul-de-sac on his bike with no training wheels like he’d been doing it for years. He and HJ are the same age and have been going to school together since preschool. All he had to do was suggest she try it and she came running to ask her dad to take them off. “Now, HJ. It might be a little tricky at first, but keep trying. You can do it,” I said. “It’s hard? If I can’t do it, you guys can just put my training wheels back on,” she said. “Uh. Probably not. Be brave, HJ. Be brave like Wonder Woman.” This is a mantra that’s uttered at least five times a week at our house. I say it so much that the girls roll their eyes at me when I say it sometimes. I can’t help it. I love that this movie came out now when they are little. It’s giving me so much help in parenting. Crying during hair brushing? Be brave like Wonder Woman. I don’t think she cries when she brushes her hair in the morning. Trying spinach turkey burgers? Be brave like Wonder Woman. She eats spinach to stay strong. Going to the bathroom alone? Be brave like Wonder Woman. And wash your hands. But if we’re being honest, I use this phrase the most to convince them to do things I’m afraid they won’t try out of fear of failure. It totally stems from my own issues with this. Don’t judge me. It’s for their own good! And aren’t parents supposed to project their own insecurities onto their children?! I’m only
The first of many times I struggled with this was when I was in Ms. Mosser’s third grade class. We were learning about the government and elections. To help illustrate, our teacher conducted a class election of president, vice president and so on. These elected positions would have jobs throughout the year and even get some special privileges as a result. We had nominations, campaigning and speeches. I so badly wanted to run for president. I was a Type A, perfectionist little 8-year-old and I was new to the school district. I had only two friends and I was still trying to find my place in my new surroundings in a smaller town. I stressed about every social interaction at school. I wanted to be liked and have friends. I also wanted to be class president. When it came time to nominate classmates for elected positions, kids were pretty excited. Hand after hand raised. There were 13 or so boys in our class and only 8 or so girls. Nearly every boy nominated himself or his best friend. With every new name added to the chalkboard, they were high fiving and talking amongst themselves. I sat silent. I really, really wanted to be the class president, but there was no way in small town Kansas that I, a girl, was going to throw my hat in that ring of boys. They had their own club. They weren’t going to go for a girl who’s biggest claim to fame so far was the tube of roll-on strawberry lip gloss that smelled like candy in my desk. Right before the time ended for nominations, one of my two new friends raised her hand and through giggles gave my name to the teacher. I gave her the stink eye immediately. I wanted to crawl under a table to avoid what I was sure were judgy stares in my direction. I was sure this would be social suicide. I hadn’t even made more friends than I could count on one hand. I was going to fail and die of embarrassment in front of these kids I just met. I was sure of it, until the teacher gave all us nominees the opportunity to bow out of the race. My hand was the second one raised to have their name rubbed off the dusty chalkboard. “Are you sure? It’d be cool to have a girl up here,” Ms. Mosser probably said. (I can’t remember exactly.)