Tread Kindly

[*I only have sappy posts in my drafts. What can I say? I'm twelve weeks post partum, I'm a big ball of sap. Maybe if I clear some of them out, my brain will get over itself.]

And so. They are going to preschool. My big kids. My four-year-old daughter and almost-four year-old son.

For four years, I have been the center, the savior, the boss, the fairy godmother, the teacher, the boo boo kisser, the source of affection, praise and discipline and now I'm not the center. I'm not even a satellite. I'm not even sure I'm a planet. I might be Pluto, the demoted, not-a-planet planet, but only if I pack good snacks and bagels instead of sandwiches.

They skip off with delight each morning and return reluctantly just after lunch. In between? I don't know. I've known everything for four years, every single moment, every tiny thing and now for three hours a day I don't know. I learn some. What they tell me, what I can glean in the car. What I can pry out of them if I ask the right questions. Did you sing a song? Did you paint? Did the Spanish teacher visit? What are your friends' names? If I ask enough, I hit something that sparks their interest and elicits some cryptic comment on which I can elaborate and tease out another tidbit of information.

They love it. Truth is, I love it. And I fear it. And I know that it's only the beginning, which makes me sad and excited and terrified and elated.

I have so much to say. I have so much to tell them. I stand, instead, awestruck and tongue-tied, watching these little people navigate their new world like they were born to do it. Their planks are holding. Their compasses are true. The wheel is steady in their hands. I know, it's shocking. For age-appropriate pre-school, my four-year-olds don't need me. Nice job, mom. (Wipes tear from eye under sunglasses.)

Sometimes, when I ask them about the day, I get a glimpse of the social crags and pitfalls that I know are ahead. They said FIRE! UNDERWEAR! and I didn't like that. Was it teasing? Yes. Did you tell them no thank you? I did, but they didn't stop. He goes, willingly, so I know it's not severe. That climbing thing is only for girls, they said no boys allowed. You can tell them that hurts your feelings and everyone gets to play. We ran from our new friend and said she was scary. That's not very nice. That probably made her sad. Did she cry? No, she chased us. Was it a game? Yes, a game, a chase game. Did she like it? Yes.

I close my eyes and hope it's a game, not cruelty, not yet.

I haven't been able to write all that's in my heart as my "twins" turn four. I watch them with the sun in my eyes (or maybe it's their bright light in my eyes) and I keep returning to one pressing thought this fall. My babies, my innocent, sweet, loving babies, Be kind. How do I teach you to include and not exclude, when exclusion is the very first taste of power? How do I teach you sympathy, not mockery, when the need not to be mocked is so strong? You have each other and there is so much strength in that. How do I instill in you a desire to use your bond, your mutual strength, to build others up, not knock them down?

I know the answer seems simple. I model. I talk. I hope. But, will it be enough?

Does it sound like I'm asking you to be weak? I'm not. It takes enormous strength to reach out when others shun. To understand when others judge. To sympathize when others laugh. It takes a centered, happy person to offer love when others offer anger or fear. Does this sound too grand? Are you running away, laughing, mom, I'm only four? How much space is there really between a shunned four-year-old on the playground and a shunned alcoholic on the street?

Hypocrite, I hear you say. You're right. I haven't always been kind, inclusive, fair, aware of pain. I am not always now. I love sarcastic humor, quick wit, good snark. I teach you this sharp way of viewing the world every day when I interact with you. I mock you. I tease you. Remember babies, try to remember and I promise that I'll try to remember too. I love you. The line is fine between humor and cruelty. Sometimes, it's as fine as whether you're holding the mocked person's hand or standing across the table from them. Hold hands and laugh, never point and laugh. It's called self-deprecation and the world needs more of it. What the world doesn't need is another person who finds it funny to mock others without a healthy sense of their own ridiculousness.

I don't regret a lot of things in my life, but I regret, sharply and bitterly, certain moments when I had the opportunity to be kind and I was not.

Does it sound like turn the other cheek? No, you never need to stand for ridicule. That's not the point. I strive, every day, to give you a sense of your immeasurable self-worth. To build an unshakeable confidence in your own value. Ridicule means little to those who know how precious they are. I mean, when it's up to you, when the ball is in your court, when all the other kids are saying she can't play, he's weird, nerd, dummy, fire!underwear!, you'll say, then I won't play either, because that's not kind.

That's what I want for you, my accomplished self-dressers, my independent bike riders, my gorgeous picture painters, baby-kissers, monster hug givers, little brother tormentors, imaginary giraffe lovers: That you have the kind of confidence that springs from an internal well of love for yourself so full that there is no need to bring someone else down to raise yourself up. The kind of confidence that knows that because a choice is right for you, doesn't mean that all other choices are wrong. Today it's favorite colors, but tomorrow it will be music, colleges, careers, politics, religion.

You won't understand all of this now. Today's simple lessons will, I hope, translate into principles that guide you through all of life's complications. Use your nice words, don't use your hands, gentle with our friends, with their bodies, but also with their hearts. Tread confidently and boldly, but kindly, through this world. It needs more kindness.