“You got it, you got it!” I yell to my five-year-old as he reaches for a hold on a rock-climbing wall. He stretches his arm just far enough and grabs it. I reach up to the rope attached to him, pull down, and move my hand back to its original position in one smooth motion.
As I run the rope through my hands, I realize his life is literally in my hands. If he falls, it’s on me to catch him. The rope is the only thing keeping him from the ground and I am in control of it.
But this thought doesn’t spark any anxiety. Lots of things make me nervous, but this – as perilous as hanging 25 feet up may seem – wasn’t one of them.
That’s because I had prepared his whole life for this moment. Of course his life was in my hands. When has it not been?
It was from the moment the nurse handed him to me in the hospital bed.
It was when I rocked him over and over again in the middle of the night, counting and singing and trying to will him to sleep.
It was when I nursed him, my body his sole source of food.
It was when I’d take his hand as he toddled down the staircase.
It was when I’d stay steady in the face of his intense three year old emotions.
It is each morning when I hug him as he wakes for school.
But that’s what we do as parents. We hold our children’s lives in our hands, both physically or emotionally. When they’re born, we’re carrying their whole selves. As they grow, our support becomes less and less, but it’s always still there. Until one day, we’re just holding the rope if they fall. But until then, we’re watching in wonder as our children scale challenges we never thought they could.
And so course his life was in my hands rock-climbing that day. It was that morning and that evening and will be many years from now. Until even that rope will no longer be needed and he climbs freely without me.
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