The Art of Doing Nothing

I have really been wrestling with this stage of parenthood, the age when they insist they don’t need or want my help and can do it all themselves (the fraught 9-12 preteen years!). I often feel frustrated and bereft and superfluous.

I used to hold them close and share their adventures step for step, and now I’m lucky if they let me come to the door when I drop them at a friend’s house. I’ve been having trouble figuring out exactly what to be to them during this part of their growth.

But the answer is making itself clear: do nothing. Well, not nothing, exactly, but a special kind of nothing.

Last January, we adopted a horse. She was meant to be for the whole family to ride and enjoy. Admittedly, I missed the riding from my youth and was looking forward to doing a lot of it myself, though I was a little skeptical of the choice of horse: Hope was small, old, and didn’t have much in the way of training. But my eldest fell in love with her at the amazing Mountain Shadows Equine Revival, where we volunteer, so there you go. We’d make the most of it.

At the beginning, I insisted on my share of horse time. We had to rotate whose turn it was, so we weren’t overdoing it for poor Hope. The kids took lessons; I gave pointers. I tried to put in a little training to keep Hope a step ahead of the kids’ capabilities. My eldest took to jumping, my youngest to trick riding.

But it quickly became clear that my eldest and Hope have a really special bond. They respond to each other in subtle and powerful ways. Despite my efforts to help, it was clear that I was a third wheel. The best thing for my eldest, and for Hope, was for me to get out of their way.

I was admittedly a little jealous, but I found other ways to get my horse fix (see “A Kick in the Pants“). Still, the temptation to micromanage all the new things they’re learning together, like how to how to take a bit or do a good, slow, Western jog, is great, but the reward of watching them both figure it out, mistakes and all, is immense, and worth much more and creating more lasting memories and skills than if I were to concern myself with them getting it right the first time.

Their journey together is one for the ages: Hope, rescued twice over from abuse, neglect, and abandonment, whose halter had been left on when she was still growing, and later had to be surgically removed, who had a lasting headshyness and terror of the trailer, and only very basic walk/trot training, and my eldest, who saw her spark and nurtured it and believed in her, and is working canter, jumps, and lateral movements with her, who helped her overcome her fear of trailers and bridles. I get to be a part of this incredible journey, but it’s a story I get to read, not write.

I thought I’d feel like I was missing out just watching from the stands, but the role of facilitator to their passions is a privilege. To be the support system for both kids as they try things out, make mistakes, fail, try something else, discover a passion, is not a diminishment of my place in their lives. It’s a new role, and it’s taking some getting used to. Sometimes I still yell things like “inside leg!” and “use your butt, not your hands!” across the arena, but I’m figuring out when to shut up and embrace being part of the “mamarazzi” on the sidelines. Just because I sit on the side, however, doesn’t mean I’m sidelined. Them growing up doesn’t mean my time is over; it just means their needs are different, and I get to learn and grow, too. My job is to help them set up the jumps. They get to learn how to go over them.