Hello Friends,
I have a personal story to share. My hope is that it has broader appeal than just sharing my own experience. I also find sharing personal stories an exercise in vulnerability, which in my opinion is always a muscle worth stretching.
As many of you know, my wife and I have two children. We have noticed our son (who turned 10 today) becoming more aware of the social dynamics at play during gatherings or sporting events. It seems to matter more if he wins or loses than it did a year ago. How he is “seen” by others has taken on more weight. His body has changed in ways over the last year that make it harder and harder for my wife and me to hold onto the idea that he is still “our little boy.”
There were two recent events that highlighted this truth and reminded us of the inner wisdom that lies within children. The first situation happened at a tournament soccer game where the opposing team scored the winning goal while our son was playing goalie. He burst into tears and my wife and I swooped onto the field to comfort him. A few days later, at a social event, an embarrassing moment happened for him where he was visibly in emotional pain. Again, we swooped in to help.
Our son’s response was tearful anger. “You are not allowing me to have hard moments!” he said.
We were stunned and embarrassed by this obvious truth. We, of course, knew he was right, but we were not behaving that way. He knew, like most children, that there is something inherently valuable to getting through a hard moment alone. There are lessons to be learned, in fact, that can only be learned, by figuring out emotionally painful and complex situations on your own. My wife and I were getting in the way. We forgot, or needed to learn, that tears do not necessarily mean, “I need your help.” Leaving a crowd to sulk alone does not mean, “Come find me.” And when it comes to sharing wisdom, it was refreshing to be reminded that it can show up at any age, no matter how young. 
Of course the age of your child matters, as you are navigating these decisions and trying to know when to step in or step back. It has been my experience, however, that as a parent, I am often playing catch up with the maturity of our children. They are growing up faster than my brain wants to admit.
Many of you learned this lesson long ago. Some of you may find it helpful. Hopefully none of you mind my sharing about it.
Someone recently sent me a Billy Collins poem called, “On Turning Ten.” It is written from the perspective of the child and served as a reminder of how old (and young) our children are. I hope you enjoy it.
On Turning Ten
Billy CollinsThe whole idea of it makes me feel
like I’m coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light—
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say goodbye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
Billy CollinsThe whole idea of it makes me feel
like I’m coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light—
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say goodbye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
Enjoy this rainy day,
Best,
Jeff Groh
Director